What the Heart Wants
by LittleMender
Summary: He had used the phrase so often, flippantly as it applied to others. Now they stood forehead to forehead, eyes closed. He infused the words with everything he felt for her . . .
1. Chapter 1

**Oh, Fancy, thou flitting sprite, thy name is Jisbon. I wrote this "just because".**

WHAT THE HEART WANTS

"Yes, sir, of course . . . Everything possible . . . I understand."

Lisbon carefully placed the telephone receiver back in its cradle and thoughtfully smoothed her fingertips along its spine. She stood and took a moment to order her desk then stepped to the bank of windows that looked out on the government compound of manicured lawns, tall shade trees, and riotous flower beds framing the bend of the Sacramento River in the distance. Any rational person would never tire of that view. Or this office. She tapped her fingertips on the credenza three times and turned to survey her domain.

The view, comfortable desk chair, her own personal assistant—all were part of her new position. She couldn't help the small smile at the sight of the leather couch. It would seem she couldn't get away from the things, though this was by far not her favorite or the most handsome. Her expression turned rueful. This one didn't get as much use as others in her recent past.

But no time for that. She was a department head now, had been for a month. The Serious Crimes Unit had seen a—what was Minelli's expression? Oh yeah—"veritable crap storm" of bad luck when it came to bosses in the last several years. Her old mentor had left in personal shame if not professional disgrace. His successor had been framed for murder, her secret affair with a uniformed officer exposed, made the focus of a state-wide manhunt that ended with her near murder. Next was an older agent who had the experience and wisdom to know he simply didn't belong in the position, and the last person to officially hold the job had ended up another name on Red John's long list of victims, his last as it had turned out.

Since then, this office, once sought after as a career-maker and political stepping stone, had—with the exception of a couple of unofficial temps—sat idle. Red John had repeatedly proven himself the white whale to anyone who bore the title, and even though he was dead—gunned down by the father of one of his earlier victims during the transfer from the CBI to the jail where he would have awaited trial—the fact was, the bureau couldn't _give_ the job away. Finally, having realized political savvy might have to take a back seat to actual investigative experience and a sound crime-solving record, the A.G. and CBI Director had offered the lead position of Major and Serious Crimes Agent-in Charge to her. And, knowing the step up was her due and the chance of a professional lifetime, she had been glad to accept.

Her cell buzzed in her pocket signaling a text, and she replied, telling Cho she was on her way down. Stepping out of her office, she paused to sign a manpower requisition for her assistant then headed for the stairs.

She counted herself blessed. Her team had made it to the finish of the Red John ordeal intact for the most part, herself having come the closest to meeting her death at his gunman's hands. In the end, she had made the arrest. Jane had, of course, figured everything out and called her, thinking he would make it to the serial killer's lair first. But—and one had to appreciate the irony—that deathtrap he called a car had broken down on the way to the scene, and he had missed the prize by ten minutes and one click of her handcuffs. She had known he would be angry, but it had been mostly with himself. He had sat, stone-faced and silent during the interview as Lisbon asked the questions, only his eyes alive, greedily roaming, taking in every feature of the man across the table. Red John had smirked back, just as silently, still sure he would never pay for what he had done. Lisbon may as well have not even been in the room. Eventually, Jane had given Red John a small, strange smile, just eerie enough to make Lisbon fearful of what he was planning. Then, he had stood and walked out without a word or look back, the team had suspected for the last time. Whatever he had thought, whatever he had planned had come to nothing. He was standing not twenty feet away when the shot had been fired and Red John had bled out on the sidewalk at the feet of his killer.

Now . . . now things were so different. She oversaw the Major and Serious Crimes Unit, Cho having taken her former place. She wasn't in the field nearly as much, but, unlike her predecessors, she sometimes kept the same late hours, not wanting to walk out on her people if they were still laboring with a difficult case.

Today she was going out, and with her former team no less. The daughter of Kathryn Ortney-Holcomb, long-time friend and Cornell sister alumnus of the governor's wife, had been kidnapped. The governor had demanded the best, and this Serious Crimes team was it. Bertram had made it very clear that he would hold her responsible for the success of the operation, defining that as no less than the safe return of the young woman, money exchanged or no. She smiled ruefully to herself and shook her head as her hand glided along the cool metal of the handrail. They hadn't a hope without Jane.

That day a little over a month previous, she had run after him to try and convince him to come back, maybe go for a drink, maybe to her place. They could talk it out, she could help him work through it. The sound of the gunshot had her running so hard, pushing through the crowd that her lungs were burning by the time she had cleared the building, even before she inhaled the brutal July heat. Her eyes had fastened on the gun, registering the dark, gnarled hand that gripped it.

_Not him. It wasn't him. Thank God, it wasn't him._

As she pushed toward the shooter, hand unerringly fishing for the cuffs once again nestled in her pocket, her eyes had found Jane, had caught sight of the look of shock on his face momentarily before diverting her attention to the duty at hand. She had looked back only to find him gone, had searched the crowd frantically, frustrated by the immediacy of dragging a weeping man twice her size back into the building as she barked orders for Cho to guard the body and Van Pelt to call for an ambulance. For a week, she had texted and called, her messages unanswered and unreturned, and she had been forced to accept the possibility that this time he wasn't coming back. She had known they would stop Red John one day, and that day would bring changes. She had just never wanted to contemplate what those changes would entail.

But change had come, the good with the bad and the yet to be determined. And now she was facing the first bureaucratic challenge of her new position. Her feet cleared the last step, and she swung around into the elevator lobby, offering up a silent prayer that all would go well.

"I guess we can go, now that Her Majesty has graced us with her presence?" his sarcastic drawl floated across the space.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I wouldn't've taken my sweet time if I'd known the Mad Hatter was in such a hurry."

"Just get in the elevator, woman," he growled good-naturedly.

"Such disrespect," she lamented. She brushed past his arm where it curled back and around, holding the door for her. "Where's that off-with-his-head thing when you need it?"

The four of them—she, Cho, Rigsby and Jane—settled into a comfortable silence as they rode the elevator down then walked out to and across the car park to the SUV, Van Pelt remaining behind to answer phones and forward any urgent messages. Lisbon caught herself before she circled around the vehicle and veered toward the front passenger side instead. Cho was technically lead now, and he always carried the keys.

He had control of the a/c as well. Cho had always run a little hotter than everyone else, and the last throes of summer in August only exacerbated it. She shivered as the freezing air circulated and didn't know whether to be relieved or irritated when a soft, tightly woven throw was hurled over the seat from behind her. Deciding not to look gift-warmth in the mouth, she spread the cover over her and listened to Cho's briefing.

"No cops," the kidnappers had said. The first drop attempt had been botched, and a vial of blood, confirmed as Abigail Holcomb's, had shown up wrapped in Mr. Holcomb's Wall Street Journal. It was better than her dead body, Mrs. Ortney-Holcomb had decided before calling her friend, reasoning at that point that bringing in discreet law enforcement couldn't possibly make things worse.

Lisbon felt her attention wandering, or rather, diverted. Jane sat in the seat behind Cho, peering at the passing scenery, his middle finger tapping at the window ledge. She could practically feel his body humming. Her eyes narrowed at him in the rearview mirror, and he suddenly turned to look directly at her and grinned. Unnerving was the only word for it. "_What are you up to?_" was what she said with her eyes.

They reached the Holcomb estate, and she drew her authority and professionalism around her, ready to take the matter in hand. She had done this before, played this part. But when she stepped into the study and was met, not by agents, uniformed cops and the usual array of tracking and recording equipment, but by no less than seven pairs of nervous and inquiring eyes, she jerked to a halt on the threshold and, feeling Cho's solid warmth behind her, leaned back into it.

"Cho?" she questioned in uncertain sotto voce, "you wanna tell me what's going on?"

He sighed through his nose. "Jane. Said earlier he was onto something. Guess he's ready for the big reveal."

It was obvious everyone in the room knew each other. She hated inside jobs. And she hated the "big reveal" when she wasn't in on the production. "At least introduce me," she replied resignedly.

Mother, father, siblings, resident cousin, boyfriend and mother's personal secretary peopled the room. Jane straightened his new suit (Lisbon couldn't help admiring the cut.) and took center stage.

"One of _you_," he projected, "is the kidnapper."

His hands moved in circular patterns, accusation hovering at his well-kept fingertips.

"Is it . . . _you_?" His attention focused on the father. "What dark secret are you trying to hide? Why do you need the money? Are you afraid your affair will be found out? Whose silence are you buying?"

"_Willis_," his wife hissed, her eyes lasering in on him. "Haven't we been through enough? Haven't I proven I'm willing to pay to cover your indiscretions? What is it now? Another cheerleader? Please tell me she's at least in _college_ this time."

Willis' hands came up, palms wavering from up to out, unable to decide between supplication and defense. "I haven't been with anyone else, I swear! It's only you—just like I promised!"

Jane's eyes welled with humor, and Lisbon knew the man was lying. She wondered at the consultant's not pointing it out, but before she could do so herself, another voice, thin and reedy spoke up from across the room.

"You lying _bastard_! You said you were leaving her! 'Just needed to move a few things around' you said," Miss Hemshaw accused, oblivious to the shocked stares directed at her. Apparently, not one of the family members thought the mousy secretary had it in her. That, and she was about as far from a cheerleader of _any_ age as you could get.

"Why, Miss A-Hemshaw," the victim's sister tittered.

"Shut _up_, Jeralyn," her mother snarled. "This isn't funny."

"Oh, like you're any better, _Mother_," her daughter shot back. "You need to insulate the cabana walls better if you're going to insist on laying the pool boy every Wednesday."

"_What?_" the trembling Mr. Holcomb suddenly roared to life. "You're doing the _pool boy?_ The _pool boy_, Kathryn?"

Lisbon launched herself at him just as his fingers closed around his wife's throat. Somehow, a snicker from the couch just to her left rose above the din.

"At least she's doing _somebody_, Jeri dear—"

Lisbon turned her head to look over her hunched shoulder at where Willis, Jr. lounged on the sofa, bleary eyes peering maliciously at his sibling through his too-long fringe.

"—and not lustfully longing after her sister's lover."

Her gaze traveled to Marsh Townen, his hands already raised to ward off any violence, verbal or otherwise. "Don't bring me into this."

"And what about _you_?" Though her face was flushed with embarrassment, Jeralyn had apparently not yet run out of steam. She zeroed in on her brother with such spite he generated enough energy to cringe. "What was it this time? Drugs or whores? Or maybe the gambling. You have such wide and varied interests, _Wee Willie_."

At that he did manage to rise from the couch, hands curling tightly. "Why you little—"

He advanced on her, his momentum arrested by Cho's ambush as the agent caught his upraised fist and twisted it behind him for a neat cuffing.

"And for your information, _Wee Willie_, the longing ended about three weeks ago!" Jeralyn crowed triumphantly up into her restrained brother's wrathful face.

Lisbon looked around the room. Chaos reigned. Rigsby was bodily restraining Miss Hemshaw, the Misters Holcomb—Junior and Senior—were both writhing angrily, straining against their handcuffs, and Kathryn Ortney-Holcomb—the governor's wife's oldest and dearest friend—was leaning back onto the arm of what looked to be a very expensive leather chair, hand rubbing at her chafed throat, trying to clear it with a rasping cough. The situation couldn't be more botched if they had purposely . . .

Her eyes circled the room, searching. He was behind her, over her other shoulder, leaning against the door frame, one ankle crossed over the other, one hand at his hip, laughter in his eyes. The situation, and with it her career, was going to hell, and Jane was blithely carrying the hand basket.

One more voice was added to the bedlam, this one so laced with venom, the others stilled, cowering at it.

"Three. Weeks. You've been screwing. Her. For three . . . _weeks_?" the victim's cousin spat. "While we were waiting—_I _was waiting. Planning. Doing . . . everything. I made the contacts, spent all my savings to hire those toads. For what? So we could get away, have a future together. I had to sit and watch you faun over that simpering little twit, not able to tell her to back off, to shut up, to _get the hell away_ from what was mine, and all the while you were doing her ugly _sister,_ _too__?_"

That was a confession if ever she heard one, and Lisbon realized someone needed to get to Cousin Hillary and make the arrest. But Willis Senior was still fighting, trying to get at his unfaithful wife, Cho was bodily keeping the Holcomb siblings apart, and the mousy secretary was practically climbing Rigsby, whether wanting to get her hands on her illicit lover or his inconvenient wife, the senior agent didn't know.

Lisbon weighed the sense of simply firing off a shot to quell the riot, considering several things: Would it make a difference? Was there an innocent bystander who might be wounded on the floor above? Would anyone believe the bullet had simply gone wide as they rushed Jane to the hospital?

As if in answer to her conundrum, uniformed officers suddenly flooded the room commanding silence and compliance. Hillary Taylor was Mirandized and led out to a waiting patrol car. The rest of the company was divided and transported back to the CBI to take statements and sort out various charges of assault, accessory, obstruction and resisting.

Making her way back to the SUV, careful to avoid Jane until she could question him privately, her own desire to do bodily harm held in check, she drew her phone from her pocket to call in a report. Futile though she knew it was, she hoped a heads up would be enough to keep Bertram from completely blowing his top. Crap storm, indeed.

Her steps slowed as she frowned down at her phone. It was shut off. She never shut her phone off. Three missed calls from Van Pelt. What was that about? She hit call back.

"Boss?" Grace made a noise in the back of her throat at her misspeak. "What's going on? I've been trying to—Never mind. We got them. Jane was right. Two hired thugs had her in an old abandoned warehouse. Part of Hillary Taylor's late father's forgotten holdings. S.W.A.T. said it looked like the place was being used for cock fights or dogs or something. Anyway—"

"Van Pelt, what the hell are you talking about?" Lisbon winced at the sharpness of her own voice.

"The kidnappers. That Hillary Taylor paid to take her cousin. At the warehouse . . . Didn't Jane tell you?"

Her eyes lifted to where he stood leaning nonchalantly against the SUV thirty feet away from her, alert gaze brightly taking in his surroundings, brushed curls glistening in the sun, completely carefree and relaxed. Except for the effort he was making to look anywhere but at her. She snapped her phone closed against Van Pelt's questions and strode toward him, keenly aware of the weight of the gun at her hip. Stopping just short of their jacket fronts making contact, she lifted her snarling expression to his deceptively complacent one. Standing any farther away she would have missed the tick at his jaw.

"_You_." One word, filled with menace and loathing and undeniable if undefined threat.

"Hm?" he buzzed, eyes falling to her and rounding as if just realizing she was there.

"You _knew_. Knew where Abigail Holcomb was being held. And by whom. And why. You had Grace send S.W.A.T.—How did you do that, by the way? Get around Cho?—and all of this—" Her arm flailed back toward the mansion. "All of this was for what? So you could get your jollies? Play with some big-wigs? Make them squirm? Was this _entertaining_ for you? Are you so disinterested, so bored—"

"Not at the moment, no," he grinned lazily down at her, eyes hooded. "Right now I'm pretty interested."

Immediately taken aback at his gall, she fell silent, chin tucked. Her arm slowly lowered to her side.

"As a matter of fact, right now is pretty much the highlight of my day so far." He nodded over her head back toward the house. "And that's saying something."

Stunned, she could only watch as he turned to open her door then follow the suggesting sweep of his hand and step up to take her seat. He stood and looked at her for a moment, her dull eyes held by his lively ones. He bobbed his head toward her. "Buckle in." When she complied, he shut the door and gave it a firm follow-up push before walking around and taking his seat, his eyes finding hers in the rearview mirror. Her mind cleared, and, unable to bear his smug, smiling eyes any longer, she turned and looked wearily out her window.

Exiting the vehicle at the bureau lot, she read the warning text from her assistant with a groan. Bertram was waiting upstairs, and she knew there was more storm to come. Dreading what she was walking into, she leaned against the cool elevator wall, strength sapped, too fatigued to stand upright. At the Serious Crimes floor, they exited and Lisbon headed for the stairs alone. She could feel his gaze on her, and she stopped, turning to look back at him. His eyes were penitent, corners of his mouth turned down, lines of his smooth-shaven face more pronounced than usual. He wasn't sorry for what he had done, she knew, but the fact that he regretted the unpleasantness it was to cause her somehow made her take heart. One side of her mouth quirked into a half smile meant to assure him she could handle whatever was about to be dished out. The tilt of his head and half shrug said he knew but he still didn't like it. And that made her feel better.

She glided past her assistant's desk, cutting through the warnings and the attempt at a quick pep talk.

"Marcie, would you pull a couple of empty boxes out of the storage closet, please?"

She heard the quick, tapping steps behind her, evidence of immediate compliance, regretting the stifled sob. Marcie had just told her that morning she was the best boss she'd ever had.

Bertram was all manner of red. The shouting began before she even stepped through the door.

Thirty minutes later, Lisbon—accompanied by a painfully silent Marcie, each of them bearing a box—tapped on Cho's office door. He stood quickly and opened it to them, motioning them over the threshold. Lisbon dropped her burden on the desk corner, and Cho relieved the assistant of hers. The poor kid stood in place, seemingly at a loss, and when Kimball gave her shoulder an awkward pat of encouragement, she took that as the sign to go.

She didn't know what to say but felt some words were in order.

"Cho, I'm—"

"Forget it." He opened a side desk drawer and lifted out gun and badge then swiped the near-eaten bag of chips off the desktop, tilted his head back and let the crumbs roll down into his open mouth.

"But your promotion . . . again . . . I just . . ."

Her voice and intentions tapered off, and he shrugged. "Any promotion to this job is just me keeping the chair warm." He turned to go then pivoted back. "And don't worry about the case. I came in as team leader, so I'm responsible for closing. Glad to have you back, Boss."

Her face crumpled in guilty agitation, and he grinned, bowing out and closing the door. Left alone, Lisbon let her eyes travel the circumference of the space and realized he had closed all of the blinds. She sighed gratefully and, when the locks on both doors were engaged, dropped into her chair and leaned forward to rest her forehead atop her folded arms, willing the world outside to go on for a while without her.

"You're a terrible person."

Van Pelt had stood it as long as she could. Bringing her divided attention to bear on Jane, she turned her back on the half-completed report on her desk, her contemptuous gaze raking over him. A few seconds passed as he finished the paragraph of the slim volume he was reading. He closed the book, index finger marking his place and turned to face her directly.

"How so?"

"You ruined things for her. Got her demoted. And you heard Bertram yelling."

"I _fixed_ things. You think she liked it up there? Filling out forms and signing requisitions and smiling her way through every asinine conversation? What kind of a job is that for a woman like Lisbon?"

She couldn't argue with that, and he knew it. Van Pelt had had her own concerns about Lisbon's satisfaction with her new job.

"Well . . . you could at least apologize. I mean, she'll forgive you eventually without it, but—"

"She already has," he said with quiet confidence.

"How do you know?"

"Hear that?" He raised his free index finger and circled it slowly in the air.

"What?"

"Exactly. That, my dear Grace, is the sound of forgiveness."

"It could just be the sound of the silent treatment."

He gave her an "Oh, come now" grimace, and she couldn't resist the smile that tugged at her lips, turning her back on him and busying herself with her paperwork before he could have the satisfaction of seeing it fully bloom.

"As long as you're sure she'll be all right."

"Don't worry so, child," he said serenely. She could hear the pages wuffle as he reopened his book. "I know what I'm about."

Her eyes lifted to share a silent communication of agreement with the other two interested agents in the bullpen, and it was decided to leave the matter in Jane's very capable hands. He and Lisbon were friends, and no one knew their prickly boss so well or how to set things right with her.

And so, the rest of the day played out, interrogations completed, confessions recorded, charges allocated, arraignments set, dinner come and gone. For five-and-a-half hours, the bullpen operated at a quiet buzz and Lisbon's blinds and doors remained closed. Finally, at two minutes past six, a light click wafted down the hall and Cho, Rigsby and Van Pelt went on alert. Jane alone remained unfazed, lightly dozing on his leather sofa. The three agents looked to one another again, eyes going to the doorway at the sound of Lisbon's quiet voice.

"Everything all right?"

"Uh-yeah," Grace turned her face up to the boss's with a bright smile. "All reports are in."

"We got full confessions from Taylor and Townen, and everybody else is squared away," Rigsby added.

"It's all good, Boss. Just signing off on the file before I send it to the D.A," Cho assured.

She nodded distractedly and walked to where Jane lay on his couch in angelic repose. Standing quietly looking down at him, she asked, "And you? Do you feel you've had a profitable day?"

There was no rancor in her voice, no accusation, and it sounded for the world like it was a simple question. One sea-green eye cracked open.

"I think so, yes."

"Oh. Well. Good."

She turned to offer a good night to the group at large, swallowing hard at their suddenly angry glares, knowing their ill will wasn't directed at her. Jane sat up slowly, followed the trailing of her gaze. He shuddered and looked up at her.

"I know I did a despicable thing."

"Yes."

"And it _seemed_ like I was purposely trying to throw a wrench into your professional advancement."

"Yes."

He studied his new shoes for a moment then inhaled deeply and took another look around the bullpen. Three pairs of expectant eyes looked back.

"That wasn't my intention."

"Oh?"

He smirked up at her, appreciating that she wasn't going to make it too easy for him. He did prefer a challenge.

"Come, Lisbon. We know you would never be happy in a job like that."

"Hm."

"Pandering to the upper crust. Smiling vacuously at their ignorance of what really goes into making all of this work. You were bored silly by the end of the first week."

"Was I?"

"Yes, you were, dear. You tried to hide it, tried to be a good little scout and not let it show, but I could see it. We _all_ saw it."

His eyes swept the room again, this time hers following. One by one they all caved, nodding and shrugging their assent. He warmed to his argument.

"No activity, no challenge. How can a properly drafted statement for the press begin to compare with working a case on the ground, finding your way through the labyrinth of evidence, dividing the pertinent from the insignificant, snapping the trap? What would you do up there all day long, no perps to question, no scumbags to arrest, no impossibly huge miscreants to tackle?"

"I don't know. Enjoy my raise? The perks? A well-deserved rest?"

"You'd get pudgy."

"Pudgy!" She caught herself just before her hands raised to her waistline.

"Oh, it hadn't started yet." He smiled lightly up at her. "You're still as diminutively svelte as ever. But for how long? All of those corporate-type lunches, meet-and-greets and fundraisers combined with less exercise, and well . . .," he shrugged at the inevitability. "It was only a matter of time."

Her eyes held his steadily, as if she wanted more reassurance that falling a rung or two back down the ladder was a good thing.

"Still, I'd like to make it up to you."

Her eyes instantly sparkled with anticipation, following his movements as he stood and brushed down his still impeccable suit, crammed his hands in his jacket pockets and angled his left elbow toward her.

"Let me walk you to your car," he said solicitously.

She eyed the elbow like it was Cleopatra's asp. He waggled it at her and waited. Finally, with a roll of her eyes, she grudgingly took it and followed his lead as they exited the bullpen and made for the elevator together.

The agents' eyes trailed after them until they were no longer in line of sight, Van Pelt being the first to turn back to the other two.

"Do you _believe_ him? _Walk her to her car?_ That's the least—no—far below the very least of what he should be doing!"

"That's just the opener," Rigsby intoned sagely.

"Yeah. He'll follow protocol pretty much."

"Protocol?" Grace asked skeptically.

"Several days of expensive coffees," Cho explained, "and a couple weeks' worth of her favorite foods, including pastries you can only get on the internet. A few small surprises and one big one, tailored specifically to her."

"And side trips," Rigsby added eagerly to Cho's nodding agreement. "Little side trips to those weird places." Like farm stands and tea rooms and wineries with private art collections.

"Hey. You wanna bet on how long it'll take him to get back on her good side?" Cho saw no reason why Jane's groveling shouldn't have side benefits. After all, they had to work with Lisbon too.

"_No_." Grace's stern disapproval quelled Rigsby's enthusiastic nod. "What he did was reprehensible. She may never be offered another opportunity like that again. And you will not bet on anything. This isn't a _game_."

Rigsby's mouth rounded to a guilty "o", and he looked at Cho, who shrugged back. Maybe they should take it a little more seriously, keep an eye on Jane and make sure he followed through. Cho packaged the file and handed it to Agent Ron for the interdepartmental outbound, and they all settled in for a few minutes of reading and computer work, not wanting to follow too closely on Jane and Boss's heels.

They approached the elevator, Jane hit the down button, returned his hand to his jacket pocket and they both faced the doors, waiting. Lisbon's hand squeezed his elbow once gently then snaked down his arm into his pocket, her hand finding his.

"You're taking an incredible risk, Agent Lisbon."

"Yes."

"Anyone could walk by."

"Yes."

"Irreparable harm could be done to your reputation."

"Oh?"

"It would be advisable for you to count the cost."

"Hm."

She stroked his closed fist. "I think it's worth it."

It wasn't until his arm relaxed that she realized how tensed he had been. His fingers unfurled and threaded with hers. He turned to look down at her, and her face lifted to his, her open expression of abject trust stealing his breath and igniting an even deeper warmth in him. He had often reflected that it should trouble him that he was so far gone, so much so that her confidence was a great part of what bound him to her, forcing him to relinquish a principle on which nearly all of his relationships—and life—had been based: to seek no trust beyond what was profitable to himself, what was necessary for the con.

Her smile turned curious at where his thoughts had taken him, and he knew she would not ask—another sign of her sureness of him. His fingers tightened around hers, and he knew if she hadn't been so glad to be back and so secretly pleased at how far he'd been willing to go to make that happen she would have known how close they were both getting to his limit.

The elevator doors opened, and they stepped into the empty car, separating to pivot and face front. His hooded eyes slid sideways to watch her, satisfaction lighting his features, and he knew when she didn't return his gaze that she had more to say.

"It doesn't mean I'm not angry, though."

"Understandable."

"It's going to take months for me to live that disaster down."

"I know, and believe me, I'm sorry. But I knew you didn't really like it up there, all alone, without us. And I didn't like it much downstairs."

The rest of his reasoning went unsaid. His breath caught in his chest, and he felt the hair rise on the back of his neck when she sidled closer and her voice dropped to throaty innuendo.

"You'll have to do more than walk me to my car to make it up."

His near hand grasped her upper arm as the other viciously crushed the stop button, and the car jolted to a halt as he swung around and into her, pushing her against the back wall, one thigh pushed between hers. He buried his face in her neck and inhaled, scraping his teeth upward against her skin.

"Jane," she gasped, startled. "You shouldn't . . . we agreed."

"Your rule, not mine," he growled. His lips found hers in a taking kiss, and it was a moment before her mind cleared enough for her to raise her hands to his chest and try to push him away.

"Jane," she pleaded, lips brushing his as she spoke.

He heard the tremor in her voice and his kiss gentled and brushed along her jaw and over to her ear, and he whispered a desperate threat, "Teresa. Don't tempt me to misbehave."

There was the slightest shift as her hands rolled and took hold of his lapels. Her face turned into the soft cleft of his neck, and he felt her lips curl against his flesh. He should have stepped away when he had the chance.

"It doesn't take much, does it?" she taunted. He drew back to look her in the eye, and she ground her hips against him, one time, hard. His jaw went slack and he blinked unevenly, gaze hazing with a fresh rush of desire. She only had an instant to relish her advantage.

His expression cleared, eyes riveting hers. His right hand ghosted up and over her shoulder, fingertips landing on and softly feathering along her jaw. He bent to her, slanting his head to the left and kissed her, once, twice, more, gradually shifting the tilt of his head to the right, each touch a whisper of sweet yearning. As he felt her leaning into him trying to deepen the kiss, his fingers stroked, barely there, down her throat, pausing at her pulse point before inverting and dipping downward, his nails flat against her skin, to skim beneath the edge of her scooped-neck tee. Her lips ceased working against his as his fingers pushed into her bra, her attention focusing on the lower contact. When one finger delved deeper and scraped across taut, sensitive flesh, her whole body rolled up to arch into his touch. He pulled back, stepping away just far enough to untangle his legs from hers, her lips following his with a questioning whimper. When she opened her eyes to find him, one side of his mouth was kinked into a smirk, and he answered her question, lazy and smug, "You're right. It doesn't seem to take much at all."

Her gaze dropped to where his hand still moved teasingly inside her shirt then rose to meet his, her expression haughty.

"Jane. I'm not having sex with you in a CBI elevator."

His smirk went full blown then. "We'll see."

Her jaw clenched in determination, but before she could find a firm seat on her high horse, his hand moved to center on her chest and closed in a fist, the double layers of fabric bunching in his grip, and he pulled her, hard, against him, his other hand fisting in her hair and holding her head captive as he kissed her again. This time the demand rushed through her, stealing her will and resolve. Her hands slid up and grasped at his shoulders and when he felt her knees give, the hand in her clothes moved down and circled around her waist to hold her firmly to him. He was immersed in her, aware and reading, and when she trembled he felt the apprehension in it. He drew back to look at her once more, this time in concern.

There were tears. "Why are you doing this?" she whispered.

He couldn't help but smile, consoling and reassuring. "I would think that was obvious."

"No . . .," she swallowed. "Why are you doing this? With _me_? Why did you stay?"

Part of him, the part that had always been, didn't want to say, didn't want to give in.

"Because it pleases me." It was true, as far as it went.

She swallowed again, eyes searching his then nodded, and he knew she would accept it as answer enough. And suddenly, it wasn't nearly as much as he wanted to give her. Both arms circled her in a firm but tender embrace, and he kissed her cheek as he pulled her to him. His lips trailed to her ear and his right hand stroked up and down her back.

"I would do anything to keep you. Do you understand? Anything I need to do."

He had given her so much in those few words. It made her want more. She clutched at him, whispering back, "Why?"

He knew the answer, but he'd used the phrase so often, flippantly as it applied to others. His left arm held onto her as his right hand moved from her back, along her side, up her rib cage, over her breast to touch and cradle her cheek as he shifted his stance. Now they stood forehead to forehead, eyes closed. He infused the words with everything he felt for her.

"The heart wants what the heart wants, my love. It will not be denied."

"Heart?" she asked tremulously.

His eyes opened at that. Had she really not understood? When he drew his head away from hers, her eyes opened too.

"What do you _think_ this has been about, Lisbon?"

One slim shoulder rose in an uncertain shrug. He was astonished.

"It seems I have a lot more to make up for than a bit of bad behavior. What is today?"

Her head tilted, lips parted and she blinked up at him. "Friday?"

"Hm. We're off this weekend, yes?"

"Yes?"

His grin went wide and wolfish. "Perfect."

She shivered. "We'll need to stop at the market."

He breathed a kiss into her hair. "We'll order in."

Her lips found his jaw. "No good. We'd have to answer the door all weekend."

His nose dipped to her neck. "You're right. We'll order groceries. We won't have to stop on the way, and only one delivery."

"Good thinking."

Her mouth sought his, and they devoured one another, tongues, hands, hips moving in voracious frenzy. Finally, realizing they couldn't sate their growing hunger, they pulled back to study one another for a moment.

"I need to start the elevator again."

Knowing he was right, she raised her hands, her fingers attempting to straighten his hair, his retucking her shirt.

"You okay? You ready?"

"Yeah, yeah," she assured. When her hands raised to bring order to her own mane, his brusque "Leave it" stilled her movements. He gave her one last long look then tapped the button for the lobby.

The elevator doors opened on the Admin floor, Payroll and Human Resources personnel waiting for the ride down. By now everyone in the building had heard about Jane torpedoing the case. As one, they took in the consultant's vague perusal of the elevator's interior as well as Lisbon's petulant scowl and decidedly harried appearance. The weekend awaited, and the car had taken too long to arrive at their floor as it was, so they swallowed their hesitance and stepped in, hoping any awkwardness could be forestalled until they made their escape. In the general flurry of everyone going their separate ways, no one paid heed to the two walking in the same direction or Jane's hand lifting to cradle Lisbon's elbow.

"Should you call up and tell the others you're leaving for the night?"

"Nah. They expect me to do as I please. Informing them of the minutiae of my movements would only make them suspicious, and we wouldn't want them speculating—" They separated, each moving to their own vehicle, and Jane paused to look back at her, his words arresting her movement as well. ". . . Would we?"

Again that uncertain shrug as her eyes searched his face. "No. Probably not a good idea."

A mild air of what felt like disappointment settled between them. Lisbon drew up her shoulders, shoved her fingertips into her jeans pockets and studied her shoes. Jane's left hand formed into a loose fist, thumb pad rubbing along the side of his index finger as he looked up at the lot security camera. His gaze fell back to her, and he took one tentative step.

"Lisbon, I . . ."

Her head came up, eyes meeting his. "Yes?"

One glance back at the camera. Slow grin. Exaggerated whisper. "Race you home!"

Languid blink. Indulgent smile. Inviting tilt of the head. He almost closed the distance.

"You're on!" she whispered back.

Purpose fueling their movements, they hurried to their cars. Jane fired his ignition and waited before pulling out as he made a call to the mom-and-pop deli and grocery near her apartment, more than willing to give Lisbon a head start. He would catch up with her soon enough.

**END**


	2. Without Reason and Without Prudence

**I originally intended for this to be a single chapter one-shot, but the idea of Jane and Lisbon in a secret relationship wouldn't leave me alone. It seems the imagination wants what the imagination wants as well. Maybe in this case that's just another word for the heart two or three times removed. This is just three more chapters of nothing but romance—no plot, no crime—with mostly Jane and Lisbon and a bit of the team thrown in for good measure. The quote below has become the recurring mantra (I even went back and added it to chapter 1.). I wish I could find its origin. I posted the question on Ask-dot-com, and a responder said it's from one of Mary Shannon's voice overs on "In Plain Sight". But she begins the saying with, "It's been said—", so I think it comes from elsewhere. In any case, where Jane and Lisbon are concerned, it's certainly a lovely notion.**

_Without reason and without prudence, the heart wants what the heart wants, and more often than not, it will not be denied. –_

2. WITHOUT REASON AND WITHOUT PRUDENCE

Van Pelt hated days like this and was glad they were very few and plenty far between. Something would hit, triggering a memory out of the blue—an ambush of incident, sound, observation—and she would watch Lisbon falter.

Rigsby had once asked her if she had read her co-workers' files, and she had replied in the negative. It wasn't an outright lie. She had never regarded Lisbon as co-anything until the last year when the two of them had become violently and inextricably bound by bullets, two from her lover's gun for Lisbon and two from her own for him. But she _had _read Lisbon's file early on, hoping to glean some insight that would ease her way into her boss's acceptance and trust. The scant information on Lisbon's family history had motivated a search that had taken her to the father's death certificate and autopsy report, including his blood-alcohol level and fresh abrasions across the knuckles of his right hand. This, in turn, was linked to the first responder's report in which mention was made of the contusions on the faces of two of the children, one a daughter. Running her boss's childhood address through the system unearthed a disturbance complaint filed by a neighbor the previous year. It hadn't been difficult to put the pieces together.

Shortly after joining the team, Van Pelt had accompanied Lisbon to the family home of a murder victim, a teenaged girl who had become the surrogate caregiver in the wake of her mother's death and her father's drunken neglect. Grace was the sole witness to Lisbon's vulnerability, the stench of alcohol, the father's listless expression, the unkempt air of the house coalescing in a wave of memory sensations that had literally brought the boss to her knees. Lisbon's controlled but hostile reaction to Van Pelt's concern had branded the subject permanently unmentionable. After today's incident, however, Grace—in spite of her own reticence these days to "do personal"—was once again wishing Lisbon would open up on the subject.

The investigation into the murder of an accountant at a downtown firm had all five team members heading to an area near Alkali Flats that was best known for its high assault rates. There they had hoped to find Roger Winslow's homeless, alcoholic brother—a recently released ex-con with a violent crimes record—with whom he had met on the night of his death. They had run Gerald Winslow to ground in the parking garage of an industrial park. Something had happened between Jane and Lisbon, one of their petty spats no doubt, and the senior agent had handed responsibility for the consultant's actions and safety over to Rigsby before striding into the concrete multi-level. Lisbon was three levels away from her nearest back-up when she was attacked. Grace was on the scene ahead of the other agents, her weapon drawn, but it was Jane who had somehow gotten there first, pulling Winslow off of Lisbon and beating him until he was nearly unrecognizable before Cho and Rigsby could pull him off. The whole thing had been unsettling, for far beyond the obvious reasons, but a pointed look from Jane had Van Pelt restraining her curiosity, silencing her questions about Lisbon's condition and apparent failure to protect herself adequately.

When their suspect breathalyzed at .27, Grace had thought she understood what had happened well enough. Caught unawares, the first strike to the back of her head, Lisbon had then been spun around, her attacker dealing two solid blows blacking one eye and splitting her lip, his whiskey-soaked breath hitting her with nearly as much force as the physical assault. Momentarily stunned, her psyche had reverted, just for an instant, to that helpless girl, victimized by her father and doing whatever it took and taking whatever was dished out in order to protect her younger brothers. That instant had passed, and Lisbon's experience and training and natural fire had come awake in time for her to defend herself from the worst of it. But size and surprise, fear and desperation had given her attacker the upper hand, and if Jane hadn't gotten to her when he did . . . Even now, in the safety of the office and the familiar comfort of the bullpen, Grace shuddered at how badly it could have turned out.

Once the boss's cuts and bruises had been tended to at the scene and they had made it back to the bureau, Lisbon had almost immediately stepped out, saying she needed some time. Grace knew it would be better for Boss to talk through what had happened than try to wade through the morass of self-reproof and shame that would surely only be fostered by silence and solitude, and she was sure Jane would have agreed and been the first one to step into the role of confidante. But some minutes after Lisbon's retreat, he had pronounced himself in need of something from the broader tea selection of the coffee shop around the corner and up the street. He had taken drink orders from the team, promised to pick up something for Lisbon as well, and headed out.

After a short while, Grace's impatience got the better of her. She knew where Lisbon had gone. At the back of the building, in the older construction, there was a ladies' room built on an outdated design of stalls separated by metal prefab walls and doors and exposed under-sink plumbing. Rarely used, it was inconvenient to most of the building and not nearly as nice as the newer facilities at the other end, and Lisbon sometimes went there for the quiet when she needed to think, to vent or even on one occasion, to wash a friend's blood out of her shirt. Grace excused herself from the bullpen to Rigsby's sympathetic-but-better-you-than-me face and Cho's guarded and uncharacteristically tense expression.

She walked back through the temporary records room, taking the rear service elevator down one level, past a couple of old interrogation rooms that were now used primarily for overflow furniture storage. As she neared the end of the hall, a soft murmur floated toward her from beyond the wide doorway. Come to comfort Lisbon, someone had beaten her to it. Stopping just inside the door frame, she leaned her head around the edge to see whom.

"Lisbon? Let me in."

Jane stood, head bent, his right hand braced against the door jamb, the palm of his left flat against the door as if he might sense her through it. He waited a few seconds then, hearing nothing, flexed his fingertips, rippling them back and forth across the wood surface. Grace wondered how many times he had wished he really could do magic. He leaned back into the door, ear close to hear movement or a voice on the other side.

"Lisbon. Teresa . . . Sweetheart, please. Open up."

A few more silent seconds, then he looked at the door, his whole body alert. The bolt was slowly drawn back, the door hesitantly opened, and Lisbon stepped into view, her body blocking the way, right hand holding onto the inside door handle and shoulder wedged against the door's edge. Though he had seen her just minutes before, the bruising around her eye and along her jaw already purpling, Jane's face crumpled in pain and something else that looked like regret. Lisbon's reluctance turned into defiance as she faced him, dismissing the perception of weakness her imperative.

"It's not as bad as—"

"I'm sorry," he said softly, raising his left hand to cup her unharmed cheek. The unexpectedness of his words immediately arrested her dismissal, and she frowned up at him.

"Jane, this wasn't your—"

"I knew when I said what I did, it would piss you off, and I said it anyway. Made you so angry you wanted to get away from me, away from everybody so you could cool off. If I hadn't—I'm sorry, Lisbon."

"Jane," she responded, her voice soft and sensible, "this wasn't your fault. We were going into a potentially dangerous situation, dangerous man, lots of places to hide." She hung her head in embarrassment. "I should've known better."

"Me too."

His fingertips stroked her jaw then along the side of her neck to tunnel into her hair. When he bent his head to lightly kiss the dimple at the corner of her mouth, Grace felt her own breath hitch.

"You followed me."

"Didn't want you to get away." One more feather kiss.

"Rescued me."

Kiss to the tip of her nose. "Told you I always would."

The door opened a little wider as she leaned to him. His right hand slid down the door jamb, curled over her shoulder and ran down her back, tucking her under his arm as he dipped his head to nuzzle her neck.

"Is this your way of making me feel better?" she asked, her voice at once sultry and teasing.

He straightened and looked down at her, a lazy grin rolling across his face. "As your rescuer, I had something more in the way of a reward in mind."

His left hand slid away from her neck and down her chest, and when it disappeared under the lapel of her jacket, Grace nearly choked on her gasp. But the unknowing objects of her observations were blessedly too caught up in one another to hear, and she watched, transfixed as Lisbon backed into the ladies' room drawing Jane after her. For a moment she wondered if she should stay and stand guard, but the sound of the deadbolt clicking into place told her she wasn't needed. Jane was taking things in hand and seeing to the details.

Her face flamed, and she spun on her heel and speed walked silently back up the dark hallway. The old elevator slowly ascended, and she winced at every creak, still fearful she might be somehow caught out in just _knowing_ what was happening behind that locked door. A few deep breaths got her through the records room and back to the bullpen.

"Boss all right?" Rigsby asked.

"Yep. Fine."

She didn't look up, didn't dare look at Cho. If he saw her face he would know. He would give her that wooden-faced stare and see right into her head and know what she had heard and seen. She felt the telltale warming of her cheeks again and bent her head away from the others, pretending a search in her bottom desk drawer. When she straightened, she was certain she had regained her composure adequately to face the room. Rigsby shot her one more concerned look, and she was relieved beyond words that Cho's face and attention remained buried firmly in his book.

Forty minutes later, Jane returned from the coffee run.

"Black with an extra shot," he said as he placed a cup on Cho's desk.

"Tall, dark and extra cream for Rigsby."

Halfway to Van Pelt's desk, Rigsby's questioning arrested him. "What took you so long?"

Jane's head swiveled around. "Uh. There was more to it than I expected."

Unwittingly, Grace lifted her eyes to the back of Jane's head as Rigsby continued questioning.

"Afternoon rush, huh?"

"Something like that, yes."

Jane suddenly turned back to face Van Pelt and flashed a huge, knowing grin as he advanced on her. "And a light and sweet for our lovely resident red-head."

He set the cup down on her desk and circled smoothly behind her, bending to whisper in her ear under the pretext of cramming the cardboard carrier in her wastebasket.

"Kids walk in on mom and dad all of the time, Grace. It was an honest moment. Get over it."

She gagged out a tight cough and wanted to kick herself for her inability to control the infernal blushing. Jane nestled into his couch, attention focused on the exotic tea he had procured at the coffee shop, his baiting her seemingly over. With any luck, she would get through what little was left of the day without further incident.

"Lisbon get hers?" Rigsby asked innocently, and she wondered why he couldn't just leave it alone.

"Mm-hm," was Jane's distracted response. More pointedly he added, "I saw to that first thing."

"Well. Hope you weren't too put out."

Jane looked up and assured him with all sincerity, "It was my pleasure."

An hour later, Lisbon leaned into the bullpen to congratulate them on a good day's work and told them to head for home. Jane laid aside the volume he'd been reading and walked to the break room to dispose of his cup and, Grace suspected, to make himself a fresh pot of the more familiar brew while he waited for Lisbon to finish up for the evening. Having had some time to quietly reflect on the situation, Van Pelt followed hard on his heels, her own empty cup in hand.

She could tell by the set of his shoulders that he knew she was behind him and that she meant to talk. He lobbed his cup into the trash, filled the kettle and set it on the heating burner before turning to her.

"Yes, Grace?"

He was so smug, so in control. She quelled the urge to slap him, instead smiling lightly, her eyes sparkling into his.

"So. You know. I was in the hallway. Outside the ladies' room."

He lazed back against the counter. "Yes."

"Does Lisbon know?" Her smile widened with satisfaction when he shifted his weight, his expression losing some of its brightness.

"No. And that's probably best."

"I don't suppose she's too eager for people to find out." At his slightly affronted look, she hurried to expound. "Not liking to mix personal with the job."

"We've decided to keep it between ourselves for the time being." His smile faded a bit more, and she felt a sudden surge of sympathy for him but not enough to get off track.

"The job's important to her."

"I'm aware."

"Are you?" Grace returned sharply.

Jane looked at her, his gaze keen and direct. "More than even you could imagine."

"Have you considered this—what you're doing—Jane? Thought it through?" She had given up the pretense of stealth and now she was glaring at him, her straightforwardness matching his.

"I have."

"And?"

"Are you asking my intentions, Grace?"

She ignored his mocking tone and stepped into him threateningly. "Exactly what _do_ you intend, Jane?"

"To make it impossible for her to live without me. To do for her. Keep her safe. Never let her go and never make her sorry for sticking with me."

"She know that?"

He hesitated, and she saw uncertainty flicker through his eyes. She relaxed her stance and let him turn away to finish his preparations. Knowing this would be his opportunity to break the thread of their conversation, she was surprised when—pouring the milk into his cup—he answered.

"She's having difficulty grasping the concept. Hard to convince, you know."

"Have you told her?"

"'Action is eloquence,'" he replied, tilting the kettle over the turquoise ceramic.

"Will that be enough?"

She watched him from behind, his elbow moving with the rhythmic dousing of the teabag. He finally laid it to the side on a napkin, crumpled both tightly in one hand and tossed it in the trash, pausing before picking up his spoon to stir.

"I'm doing everything I can." He turned back toward her and took a sip.

"Will that be _enough_?" she repeated urgently.

He raised his eyes to look at her over the cup and responded irritably, "What do you want me to do, Grace? Hit her over the head and drag her back to my cave?"

She suddenly smirked. "If you think that would help."

He cradled the cup and saucer in both hands, looking down into the amber contents, posture easing with the shift to complicity between them.

"I want something a little more mutual than that."

Her look and voice softened. "Do you love her?"

"You of all people should know how far that is from being your business, Grace."

She allowed him that. "Are you happy?"

His shoulders relaxed. "Very."

"Is she?"

"She seems so."

Grace nodded in acceptance of his answer. She stepped up to the sink, standing next to him, aware of his gaze on her profile, and the atmosphere immediately shifted once more.

"It would be good if she stayed that way."

"Is that a threat, Agent Van Pelt?"

"No," her tone lightened. "Just my two cents."

She looked directly at him and grinned, rolled her head as she turned and headed for the door. He had just relaxed again when she pivoted back around.

"But understand me, Jane." Her voice was still light, almost flirtatious. It was the glint in her eyes that caught and held his attention. "I haven't been sitting at my computer all this time just googling directions and looking into financials. I've learned a thing or two—some from Lisbon, some from you and the others, some just from life. Lisbon's important to me. I've killed to save her, more than once. You hurt her and—"

"You'll shoot me?"

Grace tilted her head and looked at him, considering for a moment. "Maybe. It depends. But I want you to understand and believe me when I tell you—I know where and how to hide a body so that not even you could find it." She paused a moment to let it sink in, both her words and her willingness to stand behind them.

He nodded solemnly. "I understand, Grace. And I believe."

Then he stood a little taller, his voice as firm as hers had seemed playful. "But understand _me_. I would never, _will_ never intentionally do anything that I think would actually hurt Lisbon. And I'll have my own way of dealing with anyone who does."

She looked at him a long time, assessing, searching, much like the way Lisbon had of doing. At last, satisfied, she replied, "I'll leave you to it then. Good night, Jane."

She left the room, his gaze trailing after her. When she disappeared beyond the edge of glass, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply then exhaled slowly, letting the tension release on a thin stream of breath out his lips. He barely had time to fully recover before Cho entered and stepped to his side to empty his coffee dregs in the sink. He tossed the paper cup and rinsed his hands.

"Did Van Pelt have a word?"

The raised teacup hovered at Jane's lips. "Yeah," he answered delicately. "And then some."

He took a drink and replaced the cup in the saucer, considering how they fit together. "How did you know?"

"About what?" Cho asked, busying himself with tearing off a paper towel and drying his hands. He disposed of the wipe and turned to face the consultant. "You and Lisbon in the old ladies' washroom or Van Pelt figuring it out?"

"Both. Either."

Cho only looked at him, stoic and unanswering, eluded the question and made his own point. "She threaten you?"

"Sure did," Jane assured him good-naturedly. "You have anything to add?"

"I'm sure Van Pelt covered it. Whatever she said, she'll have a partner."

Jane suddenly felt uncomfortably pinned by Cho's lancing gaze. For the second time in less than five minutes, he affirmed that he heard and understood that someone—a friend—was, for all intents and purposes, threatening his life. Like Grace had done, Cho studied him for a moment then left without a good-bye.

Jane, of course, could understand their concerns as well as their intentions. But hurting Lisbon was the very last thing he wanted to do, and he would go through a lot rather than let that happen, let alone be the cause of it. He could tell them what it had been like, the realization of his feelings for her (or rather, the end of denying them) before Red John's death, the knowledge that he could never act on those feelings so long as the murderer lived, and that awful, hard and lonely week after he had run away in the wake of the irretrievable and final frustrating of his years-long consuming ambition.

He had left that day, fled in the face of the double blows of Lisbon making the arrest and some other father, life left in charred ruins by the death of his only daughter, making the kill. Without thought, he had found himself on the I-5 headed for Malibu. Like a hundred times before, he had pulled into the drive, ignored the comforting pounding of the waves against the beach and walked into the empty house.

Only this time it really _had_ been empty. Jane didn't believe in such things, of course, but in times past there had been something of a ghostly companionship in that house. Something of Angela and Charlotte lingered behind, what he remembered of their energy and liveliness shrouded in grief and the vestiges of violent death. But that night, there was nothing. Red John was dead, and it was as if, satisfied, those waiting specters had finally left him behind, no longer having reason to commune. Worn and battered, he had laid down on the threadbare mattress in the room he once shared with his wife below the gruesome reminder painted in their mixed blood, and for the first time he had sought rest there.

But rest and comfort had never been the reason for his visits. He had sat in that house, had lay on that pallet contemplating his bloody, brutal revenge. That bed, that room, that house had been fuel for when his resolve weakened, his mind tired, his leads ran out. Now, it was obsolete. He had tossed and turned for a few hours, the awareness of the discomfort and resulting aches and stiffness another first, then finally realized the futility of remaining. Taking himself to a good hotel nearby, he had soaked in the heat of a deep tub and enjoyed a strong cup of plain tea. His pajamas had chafed at his skin, so he had laid them aside and slid naked between the sheets, irritated when the luxuriant softness still prickled against him.

For five days, he ate when he was hungry, walked on the beach when he took a notion and studiously avoided his house in the same way he ignored Lisbon's attempts at communication, his anger growing steadily because the food had no taste, activity left him listless and he found no rest in the comfortable, unhaunted bed. It occurred to him that he was now living a life in which he had never been meant to exist. He had always thought that if Red John were dead he would be too, that the two of them would have done away with one another in one great and final struggle. At the very least, he would be in jail, not expecting comfort from the hard cot or enjoyment in the bland fare. Was he living out of time? And how would he come about, find his place again? The questions plagued and unsettled him even as he resolutely denied the obvious and practical place to look for the answers.

And then on the sixth day, everything changed. His phone stopped ringing. No texts, no voice mails, no Lisbon. He passed through his day, not caring that his eggs were runny, his tea persistently in a state of cooling, the beach uninteresting, its sky flat and gray and spiritless as his own existence. Again, day passed into night, and he crawled into the big, decadent bed and wallowed restlessly. Finally, he lay and looked up at where moonlight reflecting off the evening-gentled waves danced on the ceiling and suddenly wondered just what the hell he was punishing himself for now.

He rolled toward the nightstand and fumbled for his phone, folded his pillow propping his head on the double thickness of down, and opened his texts. Reading them one-by-one, he committed each to memory then closed his eyes and imagined with his mind's ear Lisbon speaking the words she had typed; the subtle nuances, the lilting inflections, the flat demands, the angry questions, the soft admissions, the husky timbre.

Her last text became a loop, sounding in his head on repeat.

_Please call me. Or just text. Let me know you're all right and alive. Miss you._

The last two words he imagined in that throaty whisper of hers. His body warmed, and he smoothed and plumped the pillow, turning to lie on his back once more. Longing to hear the real thing, he accessed his voice mail, hit speaker and held the phone lightly on his chest.

_The shooter's booked. Full confession, didn't even ask for a lawyer. I looked for you . . . Look, I know you're going to need time, but please, Jane. Call me? Whenever you can . . . Please._

_Jane, I . . . I'm sorry things didn't go . . . scratch that. I hope . . . Just call me. When you can._

_I need you to call. Bertram's asking about you. What do I tell him? Please, Jane. Please call me._

_I don't have much time. We're working with the locals in Monterey, waiting for the go on a raid. How are_—(gunshots fired in the background)—_Holy __crap__! Hold your fire! Hold your—_

He paused the messages, willing his breathing to return to normal, waited a moment then let her voice wash over him again.

_Sorry about that. The mark _(He smiled at her use of the word.)_ caught onto us and opened fire, and some rookie down the line decided to make a reputation for himself. Nobody hurt, thank goodness. Call me, okay? . . . Just . . . call._

_Jane, where the hell are you? I've got three hot cases on my desk, and I could really use . . . You know what? Never mind._

There was one more angry message, two more newsy ones about things going on at the office and suddenly they turned quiet and thoughtful, resigned and sorrowful. Her last—

_I guess this must be it then. I thought so much about what you planned . . . how you had hoped things would go. I never thought about what it would be like when you left. You could've said good-bye. Guess that would have been too normal. Maybe a blinding flash and a puff of smoke? . . . . . . I won't forget you. Couldn't if I tried. You remember us too? Call or stop by sometime? We'll always be glad to see you. Try to stay out of trouble and . . . be happy, Jane. If I've done anything for you, if I gave you anything, if I have any right to ask anything, it's that. Please. Be happy._

He played it twice more, then the one line, _I won't forget you_. People said things like that, but it frequently proved the opposite. Oh, she would remember clearly for a while, but in time her memory of him would fade, dulled down from the reality. She would eventually have trouble recalling his features with clarity, remembering the exact sound of his voice. There would come a day when she didn't think of him at all except when reminded by a certain sound or phrase someone used in speech, a time when she would be too busy to stop at a farm stand or too tired to brew herself some late evening tea.

Even as he thought it, he knew for certain sure it wasn't so. Lisbon wasn't like other people. She had said she would remember, and she would. She would always recall his face, his eyes, the chronic wrinkle of his suits. And every time she bit into a perfectly ripe, sweet strawberry, she would think of him. But who would make sure she stopped at the roadsides to buy them when they were at their peak? Who would bring her coffees and red delicious apples? Who would surprise her and irritate her, and who would keep her company at night when the others had left for home?

His leaving was hurting her. He could hear it in her voice. She missed him and wanted him back, but she would never come after him even though she had the resources. For all her gruff manner, there was a softness to her, a lady-like quality that wouldn't allow her to force her wishes or desires on anyone else. And because of that, he decided, she deserved to have her wish. He had left her once before for the purgatory of Vegas, and she had taken him back, extending him a grace in the face of the greatest breaches he had ever committed in their relationship that even now left him in a state of wonder. He had hurt her then, and he was causing her pain again. He would go back. In the morning. If only to offer thanks and give her that flash and puff of smoke.

And with that thought, he had curled into the cocooning bed and sunk into the deepest sleep he had enjoyed in years.

He had to laugh when he thought about it now. He had slept late, the bed's comfort no longer eluding him, and upon waking had set about a series of small errands. He had spent the remainder of the morning scouting out a good breakfast place then driving around the area to see what realtor had the most signs out. A late and satisfying breakfast eaten, he had caught sight of himself in a shop window and had decided to buy new shoes and suit, paying extra to hurry the slight alterations, splurging on a haircut and professional shave during the wait. It was early evening before he set out for Sacramento, thinking he might catch some fresh strawberries along the way, a tried and true peace offering.

But once on the road, it was as if an unknown imperative had been triggered. He listened to her voice mails again, replaying some of them repeatedly. He ignored the empty protestations of his stomach, hunger subsumed by a need to see her. As the scenery around him began to change, need became want, and by the time he launched himself out of his car and along the walk to the door, he was so desperate for her he was fighting for breath. And then suddenly she was standing there, sleepy and irritated with him, and he had reached for her as though he had been years in doing so—

"Where's my tea?"

He lifted the kettle and smiled down into her mug as he filled it with hot water.

"It's coming, woman."

"Not fast enough."

"You're spoiled, you know that?"

By now, she was standing at his shoulder. "Whose fault is that?"

"'Fault', Lisbon?"

"How silly of me. I suppose you should be getting the credit."

"Only if you think being spoiled is a good thing."

She tilted her head, and he dipped his to nip at her neck. She swatted at him, eyes sparkling, and he went back to making her tea.

"What, Agent Lisbon? No threats about PDA? You're slipping, dear."

"Everybody's gone for the evening." She dug her fingers into her front pockets and rocked forward once on her toes.

"Ah. A loophole." He turned to face her, leaning back against the counter.

"No," she answered quickly as if to head off the notion, scowling at him through her eyebrows. Then she relaxed and tilted her head back, one side of her mouth quirking upward lazily. "An excusable lapse."

He chuckled at her incredulously. "Lisbon. Love. You do realize how prone to lapses I am? If you make allowance for such things, I'll never leave you alone."

Her eyes went hazy, and he took advantage of the moment of weakness, hoping to make it last longer. One finger lifted to hook her hair behind her ear then traced down along her jaw, thumb curving up to stroke back across her bottom lip, fingers unfurling to cup her face then possess her neck. When she closed her eyes and leaned into his touch, his hand pushed back and up, palming the back of her head and drawing her to him. His kiss was light, tempting, fetching her to him, and she groaned in submission and stepped forward, pressing her body against the length of his.

The kiss was long and languid, Jane controlling the angle, depth and heat, finally breaking it only to let his lips trail along her skin to her cheekbone, pausing there for a kiss then up to temple, brow, and on around to end the circuit at the opposite corner of her lips.

"It seems," she said drily, "I'm prone as well."

"Vive les lapses," he murmured against her throat before bringing his lips to her ear. "Drink your tea while I gather your things and close up shop."

"Jane," she drew back and said matter-of-factly. "I've got work to do."

He frowned down at her petulantly, fingers massaging just behind her ear. "For how long?"

She laughed up at him. "About thirty minutes." She reached around him for the mug, but when his hands dropped to grasp her hips, her hand hovered an inch from the handle. Her eyes slid sideways and up to meet his. "One more lapse first?"

He smiled down at her, a mix of triumph and indulgence. "As you wish," he whispered, arms encircling her proprietarily, head bending once more to hers, losing himself in the breach. Lisbon mentally recalculated her work estimate before toppling after him.


	3. The Heart Wants

**I just want to say thank you to all who have read, reviewed, and favorite-d this bit of folly, as well as to those of you following it and me as an author. It really is gratifying and encouraging. I'm also very grateful to all of the "Guest" and otherwise un-message-able readers and reviewers. I've never had so many in that category before, and I'm always dashed when I can't reply to you directly. So, while this is extended in a general way via author's note, please believe that I value each review and encouraging comment. Thanks so much to all of you!**

_Without reason and without prudence, the heart wants what the heart wants, and more often than not, it will not be denied. –_

3. THE HEART WANTS

Lying on his couch and feigning sleep in hopes of being left to his contemplations, hands resting lightly, one above the other on chest and upper abdomen, Jane found himself, for the first time ever, in a quandary in said place and position. It had been his habit for many years to recline on the brown leather to plot and scheme (amidst the dozing). There was still some of that, admittedly, but he more often than not found himself engaged now in daydreaming. However, for the past two days, he had been keenly aware of Grace surreptitiously observing him, small sounds of disapproval emitting from the back of her throat every time a musing smile crossed his lips. It was as if, knowing Lisbon's obsession for keeping all things personal out of the workplace (particularly her own), Van Pelt had set herself as a sentinel against his even thinking about Lisbon's "personals" there. Grace would have been shocked at his current ponderings, for they were on—of all things—his conversation with her in the break room two evenings previous.

_Have you considered this—what you're doing—Jane? Thought it through?_

_What do you intend?_

_Never let her go and never make her sorry for sticking with me._

_Will that be enough?"_

From the moment he and Lisbon had started, he had no thought as to permanent arrangements, official documentation or religious rites. He had, however, known without doubt that he wanted _always_. For him, that could be a state of mind that would be as changeless as any government record, and he knew it could be for Lisbon as well. But, she was religious, devout even, as any acolyte. And while she was a little more liberal in her application than some, she was something of a traditionalist, minus conventionality. And, while externals would give no more meaning to their relationship in his mind and heart than what was already there, he wondered whether she might _want_ the conventions, at least to the minimum standard.

Hands positioned as they were, he had no trouble lazily moving his right hand until his fingertips lightly stroked across his wedding band. In his youth, jaded as he was by his father's catechism on the disciplines of thievery, he was not yet so cynical as to see anything foolish or naïve about wanting to be married. The ring had meant something to him then, and Angela would never have lived with him without it—not for long at any rate. And he knew he would have wanted a ring on her finger before Charlotte was born. But even that first joining in the throes of young love had been less than auspicious, taking place as it did in a quaint justice-of-the-peace office in Henderson, Ange balking irritably at the idea of a chapel wedding in nearby Vegas. There had been no vows, no words of forever, the only declaration of love whispered briefly before they had shared their first kiss as husband and wife. Still, it was what they both had wanted, what they both felt they needed to belong completely to one another.

But now things were different. _He_ was different. Or at least at a different time in his life. Lisbon had never said anything about marriage, never even dropped a hint and was proving herself impossible for him to read. But there was that Midwestern, Irish-Catholic background that both cluttered and completed her psyche. And while he had become accustomed to honest conversation with her, especially in the last few weeks, he wasn't able to even imagine a scenario where he could bring this up. If she wasn't wanting marriage, would his broaching the subject make her think of it? Or would it frighten her off? _Or_, if she _did_ want it and thought he didn't, would it cause a rift?

He sighed in frustration then realized the bullpen had gone strangely silent behind him. Covering his breach with sleepy mouth noises, he rolled to his side and snuggled his face into the back of the couch, relaxing in relief when the office sounds hummed back to life.

The thing was, he couldn't imagine himself married. Of course, that would be different too. Again, he was at a different time of life and much had happened. There would be no youthful exuberance in the novelty of domesticity, no toys littering the living room floor . . .

Would Lisbon want children?

He tried to imagine that. A brood of chestnut-haired hoydens, jade eyes sparkling with mischief, enamored of their doting father, a cherubic blonde in their midst, hiding their dolls, reading their diaries at the dinner table, his antics quelled only by his formidable mother's glare . . . It was good he had turned his back on the room. The grin on his face would have appalled Grace. Still, an imagining was just that. And he was getting far, far ahead of himself.

It was rather much to think about, and after a few minutes, he slid into what had become his favorite faux-somnambulistic pastime. Remembering Lisbon moments. He could go to any time in the past—a day, a month, a season, a moment—and recall an expression, a turn of her head, the look of her sleeping, the sound of her singing under her breath to some 90's hip-hop song on the radio. It wasn't until he'd admitted to his feelings for her that he'd faced the fact that he had constructed an entire memory palace dedicated to her, room and niches and corners filled with hundreds of captures. A trust fall, a lecture, a round of engaging banter, a silent conversation he now recognized as eye-foreplay, a run through the rain, her frightened voice on the phone calling him rather than anyone else, her way of looking at him not altered in the least at his confession of a mental breakdown, her fingertips resting on his arm, her perfectly executed punch, the way she held her gun, her lips stained with strawberries he'd acquired for her, her casually but scantily clad form framed in a motel room doorway . . .

He shifted his hips. Clear thinking was required, and this wasn't helping. What he needed was a logical evaluation of his feelings. That should involve a chronology of some sort, but as he had no idea when he had actually began loving Lisbon, let alone fallen in love with her, he decided to start with the first time he had acted on those feelings. That proved to be something of a conundrum as well. As he thought about it, he realized with some chagrin that he had been acting for several years, randomly and sometimes pointedly, like a man in love. He was possessive of Lisbon, protective, always aware of where she was in the room without even looking at her. He always knew what she was wearing, how she was feeling, what time of the month it was and what flavor of coffee she'd had from the cart. He touched her for any reason and sometimes for no good reason at all. He'd had an intense disdain for every man she had dated for any duration. He had nearly come to blows with Bosco over her, though at the time both men had called it something else and neither had had any right to her. When her former fiancé had shown up in a murder case, Jane's treatment of the man had bordered on verbal abuse. And, while he had teasingly encouraged Lisbon to consider Walter Mashburn as a prospective romantic partner at their first meeting, he had known she wouldn't heed anything he said on the matter, contrarily digging her heels in against the idea. Later, though, when Mash had reentered their sphere, asking specifically for their help so he could meet her again, and she had . . .

He froze when the low growl curled up and out of his throat, hoping no one in the room had heard. Well, at least he was certain of where he stood on the question of Lisbon hooking up with someone else again. _Ever_. Still, was that enough of a reason to take what amounted to, in his thinking, legal and bureaucratic steps just to keep it from happening?

He should just ask her what she wanted. He trusted Lisbon to think things through, even if he had to cut her off before she _over_thought. And asking her had worked well enough the first time he'd tried it. Ah . . . now _there_ was a memory.

It was that week after Red John. He had come to her that night, or early morning, with no thought but to get to her. Ringing the bell hadn't brought her fast enough, but he had resisted the urge to pound on the door, knowing she wouldn't like it if he awakened her neighbors. Patience had finally paid, and she had pulled the door open, shadows beneath her lovely eyes and gently mussed hair testament to her inability to sleep matching his.

"Jane, where have you—"

Her question evaporated when he advanced and gathered her in a desperate hug. Her arms hung in the air awkwardly for a moment then tentatively encircled him, resting lightly across his upper arms and back. His embrace tightened, and she felt in it the asking for more and answered with a firmer hold, one hand even rubbing circles on his back as the other trailed upward, fingers cupping the back of his neck before yielding to the desire to burrow into his hair.

They stood like that for a few minutes, no plan or thought, only a series of perceived sensations. The feel of her hair against his cheek, the pressure of his body against hers, the satiny texture of her Cubs jersey sliding under his palms, the elongated stretch of her leg muscles as he held her to him. The moment was not broken but, rather, intensified when he lowered his lips to her shoulder, kissless and weighty. He exhaled through his nose and the warm breath touched then trailed down her back sparking awareness that the neck of her oversized shirt had slipped halfway down her upper arm. He tensed, and she knew he was waiting for her to flinch, to draw away. Instead, she shed passivity and rose up further on her toes, increasing the pressure of his mouth on her flesh. He took in a greedy breath then raggedly exhaled, and she felt his lips bow against her and trail along the crest of her shoulder, a series of adamant kisses each ending with a soft pop, contact never broken. At the curve of her neck, he bared his teeth and bit, soft but claiming. A nuzzle, slight withdrawing to allow room for a light kiss to her pulse point, then he returned to the upward trek toward her ear. He breathed her Christian name and froze when she went rigid.

"You only call me that when something bad's about to happen."

She quivered slightly.

"Are you . . .," He couldn't believe it. "_Laughing?_"

She tried to contain it, but it escaped in spite of her tightly closed lips. A little affronted, he started to pull back. Her hold on him tightened. "Oh, no you don't," she warned.

He smiled, pleased, and relaxed against her, nestling to snug them together more intimately. "I missed you."

He had said it before, once or twice, but it still surprised her that he admitted it.

"I missed you too." Almost as much as it did when she replied in kind.

Her fingers gently stroked at the back of his head in a gesture of comfort. But comfort was of no interest to him. One arm tightened across her upper back, crushing her chest to his and his other hand headed south to do the same for other parts of their anatomies. "Lisbon—" he rasped.

"When was the last time you ate?"

The question startled him, freezing his movements. His eyes, closed in rapture, opened and blinked once.

"What?"

"Food. When was the last time you had any?"

His lower hand began to move again, circles against the upper curve of her soft backside as he considered. "This morning? Eleven or so?"

Her fingernails stroked deep into his scalp, and he heard himself actually purr. He should've been embarrassed.

"You're hungry then," she asserted then breathed into his ear. "I've got eggs."

He lost his train of thought momentarily. Mastering himself, he remembered that his purpose in coming was to show her how much she meant to him.

"Let me cook for you." He turned his head and caught her earlobe with his teeth.

"I can cook." Her body pushed further up and forward, arching into him on the way up and grinding against him as she came down.

He shuddered. "I know, but—"

"I know just how you like them."

"I'm sure you do. But I want to—"

"But I'm not so sure you know how I like mine." She moved her hips, brushing against him, side to side. He groaned helplessly.

"I'm hoping over easy. Do that again."

She complied, and his knees buckled. "Whoa," she breathed, catching at him and pulling her upper body back so she could look at him and brush back the single curl that had fallen over his forehead. "Eggs. And _I'll_ cook while you get comfortable."

She released him and headed for the kitchen, leaving him to sag against the wall.

Skillet to range top, burner on, butter, eggs, salt, pepper.

_What the hell am I doing?_

"Your butter's browning."

Her eyes focused on the skillet she'd been staring at. From behind her, his arms, partially bared in rolled up sleeves, slid around and over hers, his left hand covering hers in a tandem grip of the skillet handle. His right hand reached past her and adjusted the heat of the burner then picked up an egg and slid it into her right hand before smoothing over it, his fingers taking possession of hers. He lifted their joined clasp and landed a brisk tap against the skillet's edge then gently squeezed, releasing the egg's contents into the hot butter before dropping the empty shell into a plate on the stove. Lisbon watched, mesmerized, as he repeated the sequence three times more. Under his direction, they jointly seasoned. His right hand detached from hers to grasp the spatula and place it in her grip. He didn't reestablish his hold, and she momentarily forgot how to use the utensil he'd given her. But when his palm flattened against her taut abdomen, she inhaled and determinedly attended to the matter at hand, lifting the edges of the crisping egg whites. His left hand deserted its safe position as well, circling around her waist as his right hand angled to smooth up and down the outside of her hip then around to palm one rounded side of her rear. He was standing flush against her, so she knew the back of his hand had to be rubbing . . .

She swallowed deep and moved to sidestep away from him, but he gripped hard, holding her in place. "Oh, no you don't," he breathed against the back of her head.

Both hands moved around her waist, arms circling her, pulling her into him as his mouth mapped her neck, and she melded into him, eyes closed. The spatula clattered to the range top and her hands grasped and stroked along his forearms. Without dividing his attention from the warm flesh of her throat, one hand reached for the utensil and, locating it, tapped along, searching for the skillet. Reluctantly, almost drowsily, he lifted his head and opened his eyes to finish the cooking where she had left off. Lisbon leaned more deeply into him and tilted her head, an encouragement he couldn't refuse. He kissed and bit at her greedily then gave her a final nip as he reached past her to turn off the stove.

"Ready," he informed her hoarsely.

"Y_es-s-s_."

He chuckled down at her. "No, dear. The eggs. They're ready."

Her eyes fluttered opened and rose to meet his, her look sheepish as a sweet flush tinted her cheeks. "Oh . . . right."

He released her, and she stepped away, remembered where she kept her plates and handed two down. He served up and carried to the table as she poured the juice and followed, stopping to grab two forks from the flatware drawer. He set the plates side by side, and she started to slide one of them to the next place over but his fingertips on her forearm checked her intention. He sat down and, again, circled his left arm around her, drawing her down onto his lap. Body facing away from him, her ankles curved back and around, her calves capturing his against the legs of the chair, her face turned so she could look at him over her shoulder. Maintaining his possession of her, his other hand lifted his fork and he happily cut through one tender yoke. When he closed his eyes, leaned his head back and moaned in appreciation, she tore her eyes from him and delved into her own midnight fare.

They ate in silence, neither letting go nor shifting away. Jane pushed the last bit of egg white around, soaking up as much of the rich yoke as possible before consuming it, enjoying the flavor and texture with the final bite as much as he had the first. He looked at the silent woman on his lap and realized she had yet to finish her first egg. Tongue pushing along the top edge of his bottom teeth then stroking against the inside of his cheek, he considered her. Her expression, though unmarred by frown, was undeniably serious as she poked lightly at her uneaten food. She was thinking . . . Over thinking? . . . Rethinking? . . . He could tell she was weighing, reasoning, cataloging and shelving, organizing her mind the way she organized her desk when faced with a conundrum. Surely she wasn't confused about what he wanted, at least for the moment. He thought he'd made himself clear, if not in words then in deeds. He realized in a rush there was a deed he'd forgotten to do. And he wanted very badly to do it now.

"Lisbon?"

"Mm?"

He wasn't certain he had her full attention, and it was a bit of a blow to his ego. At this point, he could've gone into some teasing, maybe a bilious telling of some ancient factoid, even a magic trick. Instead, he just asked for what he wanted.

"Can I kiss you?"

The poking stilled and her eyes widened at the desecrated eggs on her plate.

"You have been."

"No I—well, yes, but—" he waved his fingertips through the air just in front of his lips. "Really kiss you."

The fork lowered gently to the plate, and she turned her head slowly until she was _almost_ facing him directly as if she weren't quite ready to give in completely. After a moment of consideration, her ankles released their hold and she shifted, indicating she wanted to change positions. His hands moved to her hips and helped her to pivot until she sat sideways, the back of her legs dangling against the outside of his right thigh, his right hand resting lightly on her knee. He leaned forward, eyes fixed on her lips, and waited for her to meet him halfway. Seconds passed before she finally yielded, but she stiffened when his kiss unexpectedly landed at the right corner of her mouth. He drew back slightly and nudged at the cleft with his nose then kissed again. His playfulness was a balm to her apprehension, and he knew she was smiling when he felt the dimple unfurl against his lips. She turned into him, her right hand snaking up between them to cradle his jaw as she returned the kiss fully. His lips moved, not probing, only softly kneading, the kiss never going heated or desperate, and he knew he could kiss her like that for a long, long time. But Lisbon had other ideas. Her hand trailed down to rest on his chest, and she broke the kiss but not the contact, her lips still feathering against his.

"What do you want, Jane?" she asked sincerely, no hint of anything other than wanting to know. What other woman would have asked him that, in just that way, after he had abandoned her without a word and shown up uninvited in the middle of the night, his actions proving, at most, only a desire to seduce her?

"This. I want this," he answered with all the truthfulness he could muster. His mouth trailed up her cheek into her hair, and he whispered in her ear, a deep, sweet secret. "I want _you_."

She went still, not a tremor, not a sigh, no hint of what she was thinking or feeling, and he realized he had no idea what was going on in her head and didn't care unless it was exactly the same thing going on in his. Or exactly the opposite.

He raised his right hand to her chin and lifted her face so he could look her in the eyes, wanting to see everything behind the answer she would give to his next words.

"What do _you_ want, Lisbon?"

Her gaze held his steadily, no searching, no wondering at his intentions or motivations, and he knew her examining was turned inwards, seeking within herself, measuring . . . Her feelings? Her desires? Her capacity for more grief? _God, please don't let it be that._

Her head tilted and a tender smile warmed her eyes. Her hand smoothed back up his chest and around his neck until her arm stretched across the back of his shoulders. She nestled her face into his neck, and when she sighed in contentment, his hand moved up the outside of her thigh, splaying against it as his left arm encircled her and drew her tight against him.

Eventually, he stood and carried her to the couch, laid her down and took his place next to her, arranging their bodies to cradle together. They slept, resting, waking periodically just long enough to trade drowsy kisses or move a hip, a hand, a shoulder in order to tangle together more entirely. He didn't make love to her in the physical sense that night, but he couldn't remember ever being so intimate with another human being in his life.

But there had been no promises, no expectations, no strings. Maybe that's what had made it so easy.

"Hey."

Her throaty rasp affected him as it always did, a clenching deep in his abdomen that pulled all the way up to his heart. Drawn back into the present, he arched his neck and pushed his feet out in a body-long stretch then curled his head around to face her. Her head was tilted and she had that smile that gave away her weakness for giving him whatever he wanted.

"Are you gonna get up and do some work today?"

A wifely question indeed. But Lisbon wasn't his wife and hadn't given any indication of wanting to be, and, in light of his earlier attempts at rationalizing on the subject, he was surprised at the sudden pang in his chest. A few promises wouldn't be a bad thing. Maybe he wanted strings, and there were no guarantees in the current arrangement.

"Have you ever thought—?" He knew neither of them was ready for the question, and it faded on his lips.

"Ever thought of what?" she prompted, her voice low to match the intimacy of his.

"Of going out with me." How badly he wanted to simply reach out and take her hand.

"Going out?"

"On a date. With me."

Her brow wrinkled in confusion, and he realized why with a jolt. They had fallen into a routine of leaving work separately then meeting up at her place for conversation over carry-out followed by a movie interlaced with some highly satisfying making out on her couch before heading upstairs to her bedroom for the night. He was embarrassed that she thought that was as close to "dating" as they were likely to get. He was much better at this than that.

"I thought we could go somewhere—"

At her look of hesitance, he hurried on.

"Not in town. I would pick you up on Saturday, and we'd go for a ride in the country. Maybe to Napa or the coast. Just the two of us."

The wrinkle relaxed, and a slow smile played at her lips.

"I think that would be . . . nice," she yielded softly.

"I'll pick you up at eight—"

"_A_.M.?" she mocked.

"Wear comfortable clothes," he said, giving her no quarter but pleased with her nonetheless. "And bring your skimpiest swimsuit. Just in case."

She smiled down at him, and he watched her turn and saunter away. Fighting the urge to rouse himself and follow after that tantalizing gait, he rolled back to bury his face in the couch and closed his eyes, his intention to actually sleep for a bit. But he wondered again at Lisbon's perplexed look at his invitation. Replaying the conversation from that point, he realized her acceptance, while genuine, had not been characterized by pleasure or happiness at the prospect but more of an indulgence, a giving in to what she perceived as a whim of his. And he didn't know what troubled him more: that she accepted the current arrangement as the sum total of what was between them or that she may not believe him serious in his pursuit. An uncertainty settled in him. He hadn't actually _pursued_ Lisbon, just shown up at her apartment ready to follow his own desires without much consideration as to whether she felt the same, accepting without examination her response.

He had said he wanted to keep her and would do anything it took to make it so. It occurred to him that every man who had been involved with her romantically—or was it ever a matter of romance?—had undoubtedly felt the same. Eyes still shut, he frowned, hands rising to tuck under his arms. He had come back, straight to her, not to the CBI or Sacramento or the life he had carved out for himself in the past nearly ten years. He was certain in those first hours he had left no doubt of his feelings. But, it now dawned on him, with the exception of adding the element of sex, the situation had progressed no further than the midnight supper of eggs she had cooked for him. As a matter of fact, they were very much as they had always been except for the sex. What conversation they had outside the office was light shop talk, banter and flirting. He had not broached the subject of where he stood or what he hoped, and Lisbon had given no indication that she regarded them as much more than close friends with benefits.

And what's more, she seemed satisfied with the status quo in every way. He had initiated everything, that initial coming together and every private meeting since. Every meal was fare of his choosing, even the movies were his picks. And it occurred to him for the first time that it was the same with the sex.

Lisbon was a passionate woman, and while she instinctively and intuitively, unfailingly put others before herself, such tractability was as alien to her make-up as it was to his.

One hand dislodged from its protective hold and trailed upwards, index and middle fingers rubbing back and forth across his wrinkled brow.

It was almost as if Lisbon was biding her time.

He opened his eyes and stared into the weathered patina of the couch's back, fingers trailing down the side of his face, pausing to scratch idly along his cheekbone as he pondered. Lisbon was holding back for some reason, and he refused to believe it was due to indifference. They had always engaged on many levels with many emotions and attitudes. Apathy had never been one of them.

Saturday would give them a chance to talk. And he would make sure there were many opportunities after that. He had built a friendship with her, and he was ready for a deeper, more significant, more substantial construct. Again, he rued the pattern of familiarity he had set, indulging from nearly their earliest acquaintance in the touches, the endearments, the presumptuous intimacy of proximity and voice. Having believed he would never have feelings for or even opportunity for a relationship with a woman after Angela, he hadn't seen the harm, wanting only to get under Lisbon's skin. He did have to wonder why, in light of his vast capacity, talent and repertoire for causing provocation, he had chosen to use those specific methods, and solely with her.

Interesting. And a little frightening. And breathtaking. Had his urge to incite her, his desire to entertain her, his need to comfort her, his willingness to confide in her and his determination to protect her stemmed from a design more subtle and tender?

His fingertips lowered to trace back and forth across his lower lip then tap its center fullness twice slowly. An easy smile gave way to a cleansing sigh. He was going to woo Lisbon, win her. He had her body—the smile morphed into a sated grin—but he would have her heart, and not just the part she had already given. He wanted all or nothing.

And really, the latter wasn't an option.

**At this point, I feel it necessary to leave you with a cautionary author's note. Delectable as it sounds to delve into the epic undertaking of exploring Jane's full-fledged, no-holds-barred seduction of the Lisbon psyche, remember there is only one more chapter in this little romance, so please don't get your hopes up. Maybe another time.**


	4. Out of Time, Hearts Conflicted

**I have to laugh at myself. When I started fleshing this out, I realized there was no way I could finish it with just one chapter, so there is at least one after this. I have come to discover that into any substantial Jisbon a little rain must fall; therefore, I warn you: You're about to get wet.**

_Without reason and without prudence, the heart wants what the heart wants, and more often than not, it will not be denied. –_

4. OUT OF TIME, HEARTS CONFLICTED

He sat, watching her from across her desk, fidgeting in his chair. She was working on a report for their current case, cataloging it into the file, and she needed to reach a stopping point, and he was willing to let her. But her "just a minute" had turned into three or four, and his watching gaze had heated to a glare.

They had been "dating" for two weeks, mostly out-of-town jaunts and side-trips when they were on the road for a case, Lisbon's reluctance to be public hindering anything on a grand or significant style, and Jane had come to the irritating realization that he was getting nowhere. He had been attentive, romantic, creative and understanding. But all of his attempts to talk about what they had and the future for which he hoped had come to nothing, Lisbon proving as elusive as a wave on the beach. He was just frustrated enough—and plenty desperate—to say or do whatever it took to bring things to a head and _force_ her to open up if need be.

He shifted in his seat again.

"What _is_ it, Jane?" she asked, her eyes still staring intently at her computer screen.

"Have you ever thought of making this permanent?"

Her squint turned into a smirk. "You've pretty much guaranteed it. I don't see me _ever_ getting out of this office."

"That's not what I—do you _want_ to get out of this office?"

At that she turned and looked at him quizzically. "Not particularly. Or specifically, no. I just meant . . . What are you talking about?"

He swallowed hard, suddenly aware he wasn't going about this the right way. But at this point he couldn't stand _not_ asking and knew if he didn't the pressure would make him do something irresponsible, if not unforgivable.

"I'm talking about us. Our . . . relationship." It didn't seem the right word, but it was the closest he could come. He was tired beyond endurance of calling it an "arrangement", the word having come to sound like something detached, almost sordid.

Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean? Exactly."

He inhaled deeply and plunged, his eyes dipping uncontrollably to where his hands gripped one another in his lap. "I mean us. Together. Publicly and legally."

"Are you talking . . . marriage?"

He would have described her voice as incredulous if it hadn't been suddenly unaccountably cold, devoid of feeling. It was so unlike her, his eyes were pulled to hers. Shutters. Lisbon had shutters up, and he couldn't see inside. He swallowed again, deeply, afraid his impulsiveness had birthed what was shaping up to be a very bad idea.

"Yes," he admitted simply.

"I see."

He had uttered a few words shy of a proposal, and that was her response. The dryness of it cut through him, and a deeply buried, desperately denied fear surfaced.

"You've already thought about ending it—," He nearly choked on the swallow this time, motioning with one hand between them. "—This. Haven't you?"

"No," she said emphatically, though with little emotion.

"How you'll break it off. Let me down easy?"

Her expression softened, but her eyes remained closed to him. "No, Jane. I haven't."

He inhaled slowly, giving himself time to at least get his voice under control. On the inside, he felt himself approaching hysteria. "But's it's only a matter of time, isn't it?"

"No, Jane. I haven't thought about ending it. What's the matter with you?"

"I won't be one of many, Lisbon." He hadn't meant it to sound like a threat.

"Neither will I," she shot back levelly, and the retort caught him so off guard he was immediately calmed.

"What do you mean?" it was his turn to ask.

Her bottom lip tucked into her overbite and her eyes roamed back and forth across her desktop. When she finally raised them to look at him, the dullness there stabbed at his heart.

"When you were in that . . . fugue—"

"Lisbon, that was over a year ago."

"I know, Jane, but . . ." Her voice trailed off, and he realized she was making an effort to spare his feelings as well as her own.

"Just say it."

"The women. You couldn't . . . It was like you had no control."

"I was in a trauma-induced altered state."

"Or you were being your true self."

He inhaled sharply and drew back, and she looked at him miserably, knowing the words had stung. One hand stole across the desktop, reaching toward him, and her shoulders slumped in resignation when he made no move to meet her halfway.

"Jane, you have no idea what you would have been like without Angela—"

"I know exactly what I would have been, and, yes, maybe the man I was for those few hours wasn't far off the mark. But I loved Angela, Lisbon, and that made the difference. I didn't want anyone else. And I don't want anyone else now."

"You can't know that."

"You think I don't know my own mind in this? My own heart?"

"I think I'm the only woman you've been close to—_closest_ to for nearly ten years."

He exhaled sharply in exasperation and pushed himself up out of the chair to pace back and forth parallel to her desk, one hand at his hip, the other rifling through his hair. Two circuits and he wheeled to face her.

"So you think you're just convenient. Is that it?"

The hand on her desk turned palm up in supplication, trying to make him understand. "I know you don't see it that way—"

"You're damn right about that."

"—but you couldn't be involved with anyone as long as Red John was alive, and you showed up on my doorstep one week after he was killed. _One week_, Jane! How could you possibly know your mind or heart after just one week?"

"Lisbon, it's been longer. You know that."

It was her turn to draw back. She looked up at him, her brow wrinkled in confusion.

"I told you. After Vegas."

Her mouth dropped open in disbelief. "You mean what you said. Here in this office. Just before you set up the shooting? What you denied remembering later?"

The words she referred to, a quiet assertion, had tumbled out during a moment of desperation at their circumstances—the threat that loomed over her as well as the elation that he was finally coming so near to his objective. Later, he had realized the danger the impulse posed to both and had pled being "hyped up" as a way out. Now he wished he had trusted her with the truth.

"I was afraid . . ."

"Of what? That I wouldn't be able to handle myself? Or that I would get in the way, maybe use your feelings for me as leverage?"

"I know that perhaps I didn't handle it as well as I should have—"

"You're damn right about _that_," she echoed his previous words in a growl.

"—but you said it yourself. I couldn't be involved with anyone while Red John was alive. And once he was dead it took me a week to get my head on straight and allow myself to come back for what I wanted more than anything else. I came back for _you_, Lisbon. And as for the fugue state, yes, there were women, but from all the dropped hints and ribbing I got afterwards I gathered there was one woman who got a little more attention than the rest?"

"You were going to leave."

"But I came back first, to see you and to finish out the case."

"With another woman on your arm that you picked up at the hospital!"

"And I got in a car with you and drove five hours, no questions asked, to somewhere I knew I didn't want to go just because it was what you wanted. And that was without even knowing you!"

She scowled at him and he thought it might have been because she was running out of steam with her nonsense. He stepped toward the desk and flattened his palms on its top, leaning his weight against them.

"Teresa." She tensed, and he went to the more familiar "Lisbon. I've only felt this way about two women in my life."

"You dated Kristina Frye," she replied petulantly. He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

"I had _a_ date with her. And it ended _before_ you called me and I came running."

She considered a moment, looking at him warily, and he knew there was more, and something more difficult.

"And there's this thing you have with Erica Flynn."

"A thing. With Erica Flynn."

She bristled at his patronizing tone. "She intrigues you."

"The _case_ intrigued me. Baiting her, catching her. The woman herself is a conniving, scheming manipulator who would do whatever it takes to get what she wants."

She tilted her head back and looked down her nose at him. "A lot of men would be flattered to be on the receiving end of that kind of attention."

"And they would be fools. Besides, I find I have no taste for dishonest women."

"You seemed to enjoy more than a _taste_ when you got her out of jail to work a case."

"She was helpful."

"You said you needed her."

"So you _were_ jealous!" His crowing was cut short when her gaze cooled and he felt the chasm between them widen further.

"Reports from the agents who guarded her while she was furloughed were forwarded to me. I know you went to her hotel room alone."

He dropped back into the chair, looking down as he did so to cover the shift in his expression. When he looked back up at her, he knew she had caught it. "It was only for ten minutes."

She looked at him steadily, her eyes still giving nothing away, and he knew if he didn't make this right with her there may be no coming back.

"I kissed her . . . Or she kissed me—I can't remember. It was months and months ago, Lisbon. It didn't mean anything."

"The first woman you kissed after your wife, as far as I know—"

"She was."

"—and it didn't mean anything? You can't recall who made the first move?"

"It was probably mutual." He shrugged. "And it wasn't . . ."

He closed his eyes and raised his right hand to rub hard across his forehead, leaning into the roughness of the touch. Suddenly pushing himself up, he quickly circled her desk and pulled her chair out, swiveling her to face him directly. He knelt in front of her, hands on her knees, then pushing them up the outside of her thighs to still and grasp halfway up, his eyes following the movement. He leaned down, burrowing his face in her lap, disheartened beyond measure when she offered no comforting touch. He stilled himself then lifted his eyes to hers.

"I need to confess something to you."

Her jaw tightened, and he hurried on to assure her it wasn't what she thought.

"First let me tell you I knew nothing of her escape plans. You asked me afterwards, and I didn't answer, teasing you. It was stupid of me, but I swear I didn't know. I assumed she would make the attempt, but I didn't know when or how. If I had figured it out in time, I would have told you, and we would've stopped her."

She searched his eyes then silently nodded.

"I did go to her hotel room, and we did kiss."

"You were attracted to her."

"She is attractive, but I wasn't interested in her like that."

"Then how _were_ you interested?"

This had all happened what seemed like so long ago, but he knew it wasn't about Erica or what had or hadn't happened between them. It was trust. He had kept secrets from her, things that he feared would have repulsed her had she known. The breakdown he had faked, the damage he had done to his reputation and hers, the months in Vegas waiting and playing the con and everything that had followed were bad enough. If she knew how far he had been willing to go and how long he had suspected what was coming and what he was willing to do . . . He had told Todd Johnson that you couldn't show anyone your heart if revenge was what you were after, and he had managed to keep the darkest part of his hidden from her. Now, if he truly wanted to keep her from walking away, he would have to come clean, even at the risk of losing her anyway. He squeezed her legs then slid his hands out to grip the side edges of the seat of her chair. Eyes firmly locked on her belt buckle, he took a deep breath and threw himself on her mercy.

"Promise me you'll hear me out and try to understand."

He felt her nod.

"I had to see if I could engage physically with a woman in a convincing way without any feelings involved or developing."

"I don't understand."

"I knew things were coming to a point where something drastic had to happen. Red John and I . . ."

He sighed deeply, knowing how difficult it would be for her to accept what he was about to say.

"Things needed to come to a head, and we would both need to up the ante. It was up to me to make the first move. I had to go, no support, no ties. Away from the bureau, the team . . ."

"And me."

"Yes. Especially you as it turned out . . ." His face wrinkled in a thoughtful frown then he shook himself and went on. "The breakdown, the move to Vegas, reverting to my old ways. Red John would make contact, and there were only a few ways he could do that, one more obvious and dramatic, more galvanizing than the others."

Her words came out flat and lifeless. "A woman."

He knew that was as far as she would go in describing it and understood her reluctance. And even though her tone said so much he would prefer not to hear, he was relieved not to have to explain that part of it any further.

"I needed to know if I was capable of . . . that . . . without any further involvement."

"So Erica was an experiment."

"My only viable option."

"What does that mean?"

His eyes lifted to hers, and he turned his head away slightly, his mind visibly measuring her.

"I had a preference, but it would have defeated the purpose."

She considered his words, weighing through them. Her eyes widened, and he knew she had ascertained his meaning. She tried to scoot away from him, but his hands held fast to the seat, not permitting.

"Me. I would have defeated your purpose."

"Yes."

One naturally sculpted eyebrow lifted at him, and he knew she wanted him to go on.

"I couldn't risk there being anything more. Feeling . . . wanting . . ."

He broke off and shrugged helplessly at her, fearful when her eyes narrowed.

"Even then—" He drew back at the quiet anger in her voice. "Even then you knew what he might do, knew what you were preparing _yourself_ to do . . . And that you might have to . . . even though you had feelings for me."

They were separate issues, but she lumped them together, angered over them as one, irrationally so, it seemed. Some warning tapped at the back of his mind, unheeded.

"I didn't know I had feelings. Probably denying. But I knew—we both did."

"Knew what?"

He looked at her in disbelief. "That this—we—were bound to happen."

"You think so?" she asked in bitter skepticism.

"Think, dear." She recoiled at the endearment, but he pressed on. "If there had never been a Red John. If I had lost Angela in some other, less heinous way then met you a year later. And if you were you and I was me, you think this wouldn't have happened?"

"I have no way of knowing that, and neither do you."

"I know it, Lisbon. Because I found _you_ attractive. I was intrigued by _you_. And after all these years, translucence notwithstanding . . . I still am. More and more . . . mesmerized."

Wearied with explanations and seduced by her nearness, he lowered his face back to her lap. He shifted his head first to one side then the other, gently kissing her thighs then moved nearer, his breath shallow and heated against her. A kiss further up to the top of her right leg, then where leg joined hip and across to where he knew her navel was hidden beneath her clothes. Stretching up and forward, his lips brushed over her breast, mouth parting, teeth closing over her through her clothes. A kiss to her chest, then to the space above the top button of her oxford shirt, he groaned when his lips made contact with her bare skin, dipping his nose into the subtly revealed cleft to inhale her soft, warm scent.

"Jane," she choked out, hands lifting to his shoulders. "Stop. I can't think . . . _Please_ stop."

His eyes lifted to hers and he was nearly drawn in by the heat he saw there, her pupils fully dilated, when he realized her hands at his shoulders weren't holding on. They were trying to push him away. Everything in her body language spoke withdrawal.

The tapping, trying to get his attention, suddenly clicked to a stop, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"It wasn't about any of that at all, was it? It's the other, what I first . . . you're going to end this. You didn't mean to today, and not soon. But you knew you would walk away. I don't chew my nails, and I don't demand too much, and I understand your job and your hours and your focus. The fugue, other women—they were your way out."

She looked at him, pupils normalling, her gaze cooled by regret. "I don't have a good track record, Jane . . . I leave."

He withdrew from her completely, hands reluctant to pull away from her thighs, and sat back on his heels, looking at her in cold calculation.

"So it's not _me_ you're unsure of."

It was her turn to shrug, no other answer to offer.

His left palm flattened against her desktop and he pushed himself up off the floor. Knowing it was his intention to go, she caught at his hand, but he shook her off and turned away, heading for the door.

"What?" she asked snidely. "You don't get what you want, so you're cutting me off?"

He pivoted suddenly and turned back, advancing on her so threateningly that her feet scrabbled at the floor trying to push the chair away from him. He caught hold of one of the curved metal arms and held fast, a knee coming up to press into her lap, holding her in place as his other hand gripped a hank of hair at the back of her head, disallowing her the freedom to move away as his lips took hers in a ruthless kiss. His whole body sang with desire, but he released her, pushing her away disdainfully.

"I want you able to _think_, _Teresa_," he spat angrily. "I want your mind clear so that when you decide what's best for you, you'll know it was all of your own reasoning. That whatever does or doesn't happen between us is of your own design. I'll leave you to it, but I won't make it easy for you by being the one to go."

Three strides had him at the door, his hand ready to push it open. At the last moment he turned back to look at her. Her eyes were closed tightly, and while he hated the idea of hurting her, he took perverse pleasure in knowing her will was fighting tears.

"Would you do me one favor? Let me know when you decide. And I'd appreciate sooner rather than later."

The door was flung back, it's collision with the adjacent frame sending all the blinds around the glassed walls into a loud, unforgiving shudder, and he was gone.


	5. It Will Not Be Denied

**It's been a while since the last update, but I've been real-life-ing and am just now catching a break as well as my breath. Thanks to the readers who encouraged me (That's how I choose to see it.) to get on with this. I feel badly for leaving you hanging, almost as badly for leaving Jane and Lisbon in their precarious position. After this chapter there is only the epilogue left to finish it out. I've loved writing them this way (romance, flashbacks, no crime and little plot) and confess I'll miss it. Thanks to all of you for reading, reviewing, following and favorite-ing!**

_Without reason and without prudence, the heart wants what the heart wants, and more often than not, it will not be denied. –_

5. IT WILL NOT BE DENIED

It had only been a week, and he was there, but he might as well have been gone.

She had only to lift her head and look through the blinds to the bullpen to see him, or the car seat next to her or the rearview mirror, but he was as absent as he had been that last long week after Red John's death. And it was the painful truth that she felt it more keenly than her loneliness of the six months he'd been in Vegas.

At first she had thought he was overreacting and that he would come around, pastry or coffee in hand, recognizing the sense of her attitude and, like her, grateful for what they could get and whatever time they may have. She should have known better. When had Patrick Jane ever done anything halfway?

The fourth day, she had sunk to an all-time low, coming up behind him in the break room, in the middle of the day, hands roaming him, voice husky with invitation. She had felt the hum of his body under her fingertips, against her breasts and abdomen and thighs, everywhere her body had met his before he had suddenly turned on her, hot and panting. But the darkening of his eyes couldn't cover the expression of scorn and accusation. She had retreated, wounded, to her office to wait out the day then gone home to curl up in her lonely bed, fetal and shamed.

It gave her absolutely no consolation to know she wasn't the only one feeling the loss. Grace rarely spoke to her beyond the usual business, and Rigsby's eyes were always filled with confusion and unspoken concern. Even Cho's expression carried a weight of woe.

As for Jane, he was irritatingly professional. Irksome. He irked her. His work ethic had never been better regulated or defined. He arrived every morning promptly at eight and departed at day's end at the stroke of five. Uncharacteristically for them, there was no case, and he spent his time going through cold files making notes, even solving a missing persons and two old homicides. He was courteous and composed, respected her authority and never left without informing of her of his whereabouts. He was a model employee and team member. Not once did she catch a meaningful look, a gaze of yearning, any indication whatsoever of the feelings he had expressed. Her tension level mounted, the desire to throw a chair through a window for real almost a taste on her tongue. And she blamed him for her treachery against humanity when, eight days after he slammed out of her office, she was glad they had a murder to investigate.

The Central Valley had seen record-breaking temperatures and no rainfall since the wet season had ended in April. Now, on the last breath of summer, the savannah was dried to desert. As the SUV pulled to a stop, Jane's Citroen rounded into the drive behind them and pulled into a parking space in the lot of the Santa Elisa Resort and Spa, a retreat center for, ironically, rejuvenating romantic relationships.

She stepped out of the vehicle into the settling dust, working her mouth to generate dampness against the arid breeze. The dryness seemed to settle deep into her bones, and she realized it wasn't seeping in. It was there, parched and waxing old and barren, taking root from within. The Citroen came to rest in her peripheral vision, and Jane lifted himself out of the low seat, graceful and seemingly unfazed by the heat. The bead of sweat that formed immediately and ran down the center of her back irritated her, and she slammed her door against the acidic sting and walked toward the waiting county sheriff.

Anthony Cardell, a stock broker out of L.A., had been found shot to death in his luxurious, borrowed bed, a three-point hit to his well-exercised, evenly tanned chest. The room was reserved in the name of his secretary on behalf of him and his wife, but the dead woman lying next to him was neither spouse nor employee. A tryst with a client had ended in the bloodbath the team examined, photographed, and—on Jane's part—sniffed.

Jane had detected a lone earring three paces inside the suite's sitting room coated in fragrance worn by neither of the victims. And ten minutes later, Sheriff Montgomery had caught Lisbon in the tiled courtyard to let her know Ella Cardell had been spotted at a convenience mart three miles away purchasing rubbing alcohol and anti-bacterial wipes. Lisbon had given the order to move in with caution and make the pick-up. Montgomery was filling her in on what had transpired in the aftermath, and the sudden, complete shift in her attention reduced his report to a droning buzz. Something in the distance had caught her eye.

Well, not caught, as her attention was never far from him, always including him even if only on the fringes. More like captured. Jane was standing at the edge of the resort property at a wide side gate in the stone and stucco wall that separated carefully, casually manicured grounds from what qualified as wilderness surrounding it. He was turned sideways, his right side toward the resort, his left to the dry grassland. His gaze swept up the rustically detailed structure, eyes squinting at the early afternoon sun, then turned as his head swiveled east toward the waving, rustling tares, body pivoting to face the same direction as his vision. She watched as his shoulders rose and heaved what must have been a great sigh then sagged, an awful posture of resignation. He began to walk, heading out into the savannah.

She knew it was irrational, knew they would be duo-caravanning back to Sacramento shortly, knew he wasn't just abandoning them, the scene, the case, his car. But something seemed so final, so irretrievable in his walking away from her that her breath caught in her throat and she barely noticed the unevenness of the sheriff's voice as he realized he had fully lost her attention. Heat of ground and sky came together, shimmering into waves, and when Jane seemed as if he would disappear mirage-like into the near horizon, panic surged in her, an unreasonable, illogical, irrational fear that engaged her flight mechanism, not away from, but toward. She gulped and gasped, pushed past the sheriff and broke into a dead sprint.

Closing in on him from behind, she realized he had come to a stop, hands on hips, pushing his jacket back on either side, and stood calmly surveying the land around him. She must have shouted his name because he suddenly wheeled about to face her, eyes frantic with worry searching over her person then behind as if to see what was chasing her to him. It was only when her shout echoed back in her ears that she heard the note of hysteria. Registering her speed and the rate at which she was approaching her objective, she pulled up, coming to a sudden, dusty stop two yards away from him.

"Lisbon?" he queried, eyes still examining her.

She took in his face then let her vision sweep back and forth across the dryscape. "You were walking," she said weakly.

"Just—" he motioned vaguely with one hand, "—going for a quick ramble."

Bending his knees and dipping his head to look at her evenly, he added, "It's not like I can get lost out here or anything."

Her eyes dropped, and she whispered to the sand at her feet, "I don't want you to go."

He looked around then, a questioning squint crimping his features. "Go where? There's nothing out here."

She looked up then and said more forcefully, "I don't want you to go away. From me."

His gaze was more direct then, more evaluating. He slid his hands into his front trouser pockets and rocked forward once. "Ah," was all he said, all either of them said for several seconds.

Finally, knowing the ball was still uncomfortably in her court, she added, "I want . . . would like for you to stay."

"Lisbon," he asked quietly, "where else would I go?"

She harrumphed at him. "It's not like that anymore. You could go wherever you want, do whatever. You don't have to stay with the CBI."

"Let me rephrase," he started, a hint of a grin resting at his lips. "Where else would I _want_ to go?"

She tilted her head, her own squint having little to do with the bright heat of the sun. When she offered nothing more, he prompted.

"You wanted to say something else, I believe?"

She scowled fiercely. "You're going to make me walk every inch of the burning coals, aren't you?"

"It's your turn," he shot back, only half good-humored.

She raised her head in defiance, once again on familiar—and what she recognized perversely as safe—ground. "I already said it. I want you to stay."

"And as I've said, I have no intention of doing otherwise."

"You would eventually. You couldn't go on like this any more than I could."

"You of all people should know how long I can go on."

"That's not what I—"

She broke off, hung her head and sighed.

"Just say it, Lisbon. You'll feel better, I guarantee it."

She looked up at him, her face wilted into a pout, barely resisting the urge to stamp her foot, knowing he saw her doing it anyway. "Can't you just read me?"

"Oh, no," he wagged his head back and forth determinedly before fixing his gaze on her. "I need to hear the words." He raised his chin toward her. "And I think you need to say them, . . ."

She heard the endearment hover on his lips and realized he was willing himself to not even give her that much by way of encouragement.

"I want," she said slowly, measuring her words. His shoulders slumped again at noticing it, and Lisbon had a sudden epiphany.

Jane had made every concession. Every first move, every initiation of contact and of declaration, every capitulation, emotionally, romantically even sexually, had been on his part. He was right. It _was_ her turn, and if she had any hope of getting what she wanted, she would need to take it.

She stepped to him and, without hesitation, lifted her arms to circle around his middle, hands nearly meeting at his back, and lay her head where chest met shoulder. After a bare second's hesitation, his arms went around her. While she was glad of the contact, starved for it even, she recognized it as a gesture of comfort, his embrace guarded and tentative. But she had no interest in comfort now, and she was done with half-way gestures.

"I'm saying," she said clearly, if into his shoulder, "you be you and I'll be me and you'll stay and I won't leave."

His arms tightened, and she felt the more comfortable grooving of sinew against curve.

"And marriage, Lisbon? You'll marry me?"

She opened her eyes and tipped her head back to look up at him, undone by the open plea she saw, her chest unfurling in relief and warmth and generosity. It seemed so _very_ long since he had asked anything of her.

"Yes."

She moved, bringing her lips near his as if to seal her pledge then abruptly jerked away, looking up at him defensively.

"I'm not changing my name."

He grinned down at her. "Good. 'Cause I wouldn't know what to call you."

And with that she rose on tiptoe, lifting her face to his. Unable to resist her any longer, he bent his head to lightly brush his lips against hers, all of his self-control coming to bear to keep it from becoming anything more. He felt her stretch further upward still, questing deeper, and shocked himself more than her when he pushed down against where his hands had found purchase on her hips.

"Whoa there, Spitfire. Think about where we are."

The roaring in her ears stilled, and she was aware of the eerie silence floating on what had become like prairie breeze behind her. Her now open eyes shifted to her right then back to his.

"Everybody's watching, aren't they," she murmured as if there might still be secrets.

"'Fraid so, Boss."

She swallowed thickly, and he took sudden, loving pity on her. "Maybe if you swoon they'll believe you're having some sort of spell."

She laughed, relieved and happy, and nestled against him. "Nope. I've accepted the inevitable. No point in hiding now."

"Well, you'll need to stop that then."

He put his hands on her shoulders and stepped back, somewhat formally, before turning her to face the silent and curious onslaught now before them. Just as formally, but all ease, he stepped to her side and offered his elbow, pleased when she readily curled her hand around it and moved forward. Every eye—_every_ eye, agent, officer, technician, concerned gawker, was on them as they headed back to the civilized environs of Santa Elisa.

Grace was on the near edge of what had, only minutes before, been a hive of professional, investigative activity. As they approached, her eyes widened in comprehension of the situation, and a nervous, slightly spastic flurrying of her hands returned the other law enforcement workers resolutely to their duties—interviews, evidence gathering and quelling of the crowd resuming. Lisbon broke from Jane's side to return to the officer-in-charge, who only cleared his throat as he continued where he had left off, mid-sentence, in his report.

As for Jane, he sauntered to stand next to Cho, who had gone back to leafing through the pages of his small notebook, organizing insights on the interviews he'd already collected. Clasping his hands at the back of his waist, Jane rolled forward once high on the balls of his feet then back slowly. Satisfaction radiated off of him. Cho sighed through his nose and briefly closed his eyes, opening them again to scowl at his notes. This was worse than Rigsby.

"So," he began curtly, whether to forestall Jane's conversation or bring things to a quick finish, he wasn't sure. "You gonna do this in the open or skulk off like a thief in the night?"

Jane's gaze wandered as he perused the goings on around him. "Oh, it will be somewhat public. In that little church Lisbon has taken to visiting."

"She said that?"

"No, but I'm sure that's what she'll want."

"And you're good with that."

"Mm-hm." One satisfied rock and back.

Cho's head raised and he stared straight ahead for a moment before turning a blank face to the consultant at his side. "You're whipped."

Jane gave a pleased grunt. "Undoubtedly. Still, I'm sure you're invited. I'll have to check with the Little Woman, of course."

One fine black brow arched. "Better never let _her_ hear you call her that."

Another pleased roll. "Wouldn't dare." He added a light "Keep Saturday open" as Rigsby walked over and pardoned himself as he stepped between the two men to compare notes with his male counterpart. A CSU tech approached to confer with Cho and the senior agent discreetly moved her away a few paces. Jane waited while Rigsby made a quick notation. As Cho had done, the big man didn't look up from his notebook when he started to speak.

"Guess you're finally gonna do it, huh."

"How did _you_ know?" Jane asked him huffily.

Rigsby looked at him and snickered. "Are you kidding? The two of you have been circling for years, you touching her, her soft on you, taking turns chasing after each other. You were at it all the time. Mostly in front of me, like I wasn't even there, like I was the butler or something. It was embarrassing. 'I wanna know what your face feels like when you're smiling.'" He rolled his eyes. "Geez."

"I was genuinely curious."

"You were a blind guy copping a feel," Rigsby turned back to his book, read a few lines and dropped his hovering pen to make another notation. "Looks like it's all over now though."

"What do you mean?" Jane asked him, surprised and apprehensive.

"Well—" Rigsby shrugged and looked over his shoulder, nodding back toward where Jane and Lisbon had stood and come to terms. "—after that, you're going to have to marry her or die a terrible death." His gaze met Jane's, and his face broke into a gleeful grin. "You come on to her at work now, with everybody knowing, she'll kill you herself."

Jane's own face split with a wide, cheeky grin. "We'll see," was his only reply, and Rigsby's smile melted away as he swallowed hard, realizing he'd just inadvertently issued what, to Jane, was tantamount to a challenge. The hand holding his notebook dropped to his side, case notes forgotten. The other hand extended to the consultant, pen still clutched between his fingers, palm out as if he would subdue him.

"I mean it, Jane, you gotta be careful. This has any number of ways to go wrong, and we'll all suffer if you screw it up."

"He won't screw it up," Cho said distractedly over his shoulder, signing off on the CSU report and nodding the tech away to where everyone was packing up. He stepped back to them, face inscrutable. "He's come too far, been through too much to lose Lisbon now. And Van Pelt's had words with him."

Rigsby huffed with relief. "Yeah, well. Whatever she said. Double."

Jane peered off into the distance, thoughts partially elsewhere. "Anything else? Threats, dire warnings, advice?"

Rigsby grinned again, guilelessly pleased for him, and dropped a beefy hand heavily on his shoulder. "Love and affection, man. Love and affection."

Cho chortled and walked away, Rigsby following. Fifteen minutes saw the business finished, Jane sitting at the outdoor cabana enjoying a fruity iced drink with an umbrella as he watched the contingent of law enforcement vehicles pulling away from the resort. Always aware of her location, Jane followed Lisbon's approach in his periphery, snapping his phone shut as she drew near. He rose from the barstool and offered her the last draught, loudly sucking it down himself as she waved it away.

"Whew!" she exclaimed. "Let's get out of this heat."

"In a minute," he responded, eyes still watching the cars leave. Finally, the last to go, Cho and the others climbed into the van and headed out leaving Jane's Citroen alone in the far corner of the lot. Lisbon followed his gaze.

"What are we waiting for?" she asked in confusion.

"This," he said, turning his full attention to her and pulling her into his arms. He bent his head to hers and kissed her sweetly. Her hands reflexively slid up his chest to rest on his shoulders. Her tongue slipped out and swept across his lips, and his answering groan opened his mouth to her. When her right hand trailed down, threaded under his jacket to circle his waist then lowered to squeeze his ass he grunted in surprise.

"That's not fair," he gasped.

"What?" she changed the angle of her head, kissed him deeply again, and he momentarily lost his train of thought. A bird cawed in the distance, and his mind clicked back into gear. Unwilling to pull away completely, he murmured against her lips.

"Everybody's threatening _me_, but who's going to keep _you_ in line?"

Her lips moved to his jaw, kissing her way slowly down his neck, curving into a sultry smile at his deep swallow.

"You want me to behave?" she asked seductively.

He pulled back to look down at her even as his embrace tightened around her. "Is that a trick question?"

She smiled up at him, blinked away the haze of want in her eyes and patted his chest as she pulled away. "Never mind. We need to get back."

"Give it a minute," he said confidently as he grasped ahold of her wrist and tugged her back. His teeth closed on her earlobe as her phone rang.

"Agent Lisbon, have you left the scene yet?"

She tried to bat Jane away from where he was nuzzling at the indentation of her clavicle as she talked to the director.

"No—uh—sir," she replied, hoping he didn't hear the breathlessness in her voice.

"Good. We've just gotten a call from the sheriff's department down there, and there seems to be some kind of cafuffle with the evidence, improperly bagged or whatever. Plus, turns out it can't be shipped. Has to be carried personally by CBI personnel. Is any of your team still there?"

"No . . . Just . . . Everyone's gone except Jane and me—"

"Tell him I said 'hello'", Jane murmured down her shirt.

"Pity that," Bertram continued blithely. "Somebody's got to stay behind and wait for things to get straightened out. I'm sorry, Agent Lisbon, but it seems the responsibility falls to you and Jane."

"Yes, sir. That's no problem."

"No problem," Jane repeated, rumbling against the top swell of her breast before he closed his mouth over it and sucked, hard.

"Ah-_ah-h?_" Lisbon whimpered.

"What was that, Agent?" Bertram inquired, his voice all concern.

"Nothing, sir," she gasped out. "Caught my finger on a thorn."

"Nasty business some of those wild plants in the south central valley. Try to be more careful."

"I will, sir."

She ended the call, wincing as her phone dropped to the pavement when she grabbed Jane's head with both hands and drew his lips back up to hers. She kissed him, a cross between passion and punishment, then suddenly pulled away, giving him a shake to open his eyes.

"What did you do?"

"Hm?" His heavily-lidded eyes peered down the gaping front of her shirt.

"Stop that! You heard me. There was nothing wrong with the evidence. Their CSU team leader is young, but she's a stickler, too much so to cause any kind of 'cafuffle'. She damn near made Rigsby cry over a gum wrapper."

Jane mewled an uncooperative "Meh", and she scowled. When he attempted to move back in to carry on their earlier activities, she pinched one earlobe with her fingernails.

"Ow! All right! All right!"

She released him, allowing him to maintain his hold on her person.

"I talked the disciplined Dr. Wellston into doing me a solid."

"Why on _earth_ would she purposely lie about evidence being mishandled?"

"She's a romantic."

"She's not human! Did you see all of those forms she was having everybody fill out and sign?"

"Did _you_ see the Disney princess motif on her ink pen?"

"Disney . . . you're kidding."

"Nope. Belle, Snow and Aurora—the whole gang. Even the Chinese one that's not technically a princess. All in their hopeful and innocent but oversexed glory."

"Well, I never," she softly exclaimed.

"Oh, you have, dear," he said, tilting his head to kiss her neck. "And you will."

"Jane," she pulled away from him again, this time a bit less wholeheartedly. "We've got to go to the sheriff's station."

"We—why?"

"There's been a question regarding evidence called into the Director of the CBI. I have to at least put in an appearance."

"And then you'll be my princess?" he asked, his eagerness humming, tangible, from his chest into hers.

"I'm assuming this problem with the evidence won't be resolved until morning?"

"Around nine or so, yes," he smiled down at her, pleased she was taking it so well.

"As soon as we find a place to spend the night, I promise I'll go princess all over your—"

"Your room key, Mr. Jane?"

Lisbon froze in his arms, but, undaunted, Jane looked up over her head at the desk clerk, freed one hand—the other retaining its hold on her—and lifted it, palm up for the key. He waved it in front of her face with a flourish and a "You were saying?", and she dropped her forehead to his chest with a groan.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""" """""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""" """""""""""""""""

He awakened suddenly the next morning, not startled or too abruptly, but an all-at-once knowing where he was and remembering events of the previous day, evening and night.

He and Lisbon had made a token stop at the sheriff's department, Lisbon's soothing voice calming the local's profuse apologies as she studiously ignored the questioning gazes of the hopelessly romantic forensic chief. Then, thinking it a good idea to eat before retiring and sorely tempted by the delicious aromas they'd both been aware of coming from the spa kitchen throughout the day, they had a leisurely dinner. Over shared pots de crème, they decided to try for a small ceremony the following Saturday. Lisbon agreed that, yes, she would like the team there in lieu of family that would not be able to make it on such short notice. She insisted she needed no gown, music or flowers, to which Jane countered that if she showed up in a special dress (nothing pink, she asserted), he would see to all other arrangements. When he finished by telling her there was no need to worry her pretty, little head over the details, she threatened to slug him, forestalled when he said he was already a little afraid of her so there was no need for physical threats. At that sweet admission, she promised to save her aggressive behavior for more private moments and Jane had immediately called for the check.

In spite of the barely contained foreplay in which they had engaged throughout the latter half of the day, they made love slowly, drawing out their reunion into languid, luxurious courses of touch, heightening sensation and release, mapping and relearning one another as if the separation had been one of years rather than mere days. From bed to shower and back again, they had finally fallen asleep tangled together. Now, Lisbon lay against his side, her length stretched to his. A kiss dropped into her hair stirred her, and she rolled away from him, decadently woven sheet pulling taught around and across her body, her right arm trapped under him not allowing her to roll away completely. He pulled his left arm from beneath her and raised his head from what had been their shared pillow, cradling it in his uplifted palm, and looked down at her, watching as she resituated herself after his movement. Her head lolled to the opposite side, exposing the fair column of her neck, and Jane denied the impulse to trail his teeth along the cord that rippled beneath her skin, not wanting to awaken her just yet.

He peered past her, squeezed his eyes shut and peered again to read the time on the alarm clock. Seven thirty. They were to be at the sheriff's station at nine to take possession of the evidence. After Lisbon had drifted off, Jane had shut off the alarm she'd set on her phone, knowing the sound of it would not only awaken her but would also prohibit a more relaxed beginning to their day. Confident he would have her at the station on time, he hoped she would forgive his presumption, even be glad for it. He knew _he_ was glad she hadn't followed her usual form and arisen to don a loose t-shirt or jersey against the chill that usually overtook her in the middle of the night.

One finger of his right hand hooked an errant dark chestnut strand of hair and curled it behind her ear. Her face turned into the touch, and he lightly stroked her cheek with his knuckles. He had much to be glad for.

As they had walked to their room the previous evening, each had made their respective contacts. Lisbon's call to the priest of the little church had confirmed an eleven o'clock Saturday morning ceremony, and he knew by the time they returned to the office, Grace would have carried out his very explicit instructions regarding flowers (a small nosegay for her and a larger arrangement for Lisbon), music (a single guitarist to play Lisbon's favorite love song), and reservations for a party of five at Virant's for brunch, as well as the properly filed paperwork requesting one week's leave for the two of them. Lisbon would call her brothers (who would be happy if she was happy) on the ride back to Sacramento. Only one obstacle remained—a bump more than a hurdle—and they could see to that when they got back. _Well,_ he reconsidered, _the day after_. Today and one more night they would keep for themselves.

Lisbon moaned in her sleep and undulated, dropping one side of the sheet to reveal the incredibly perfectly shaped breast nearest him. Tantalized by opportunity, he scooted down her side and lowered his head to deeply, tenderly, lingeringly kiss the outside curve of what she unwittingly offered. Reverie suddenly finished, he slithered beneath the covers to give his wife-to-be her wake-up call.


	6. Epilogue, Part 1

**I'm not offering any more explanations or apologies on this. Except that the epilogue got too complicated to be crammed into one posting, so it became two. And I hope the dialogue in this shorter Part I is enough to make it up to Donnamour1969 for there being less dialogue in the longer Part II.**

_Without reason and without prudence, the heart wants what the heart wants, and more often than not, it will not be denied. –_

EPILOGUE, PART 1 – A BUMP MORE THAN A HURDLE

"You want to do _what_ to him?"

Bertram realized how shrill he sounded and calmed himself, casting an apprehensive glance to where Jane sat at the other end of the sofa as the director angled his position more toward Lisbon, leaning against the edge of his seat.

"Are you _sure_?" he asked her, his tone near pleading for her to unsay what she'd just said.

"Absolutely positive, sir," she responded, trying to maintain her tone of happy resolve in spite of the fact that Bertram was flat-out just plain offending her. She had stood up for Jane in the past, taken his side, gone to bat for him. And while it set her teeth on edge to cross swords with her superiors, she often came away with a thrill of competition and conquest that thrummed along her nerves and set her pulse racing. All of that was nothing compared to the heat in her blood that had her envisioning her hand encircling Bertram's throat and shaking him like a ragdoll. How dare he imply that she _shouldn't_ want to marry Jane?

The director cast one more look toward the consultant, gaze trailing up and down his relaxed, stretched frame then darted back to the agent. He leaned even further toward her, and Jane reflected acidly that if he came any nearer the edge of his seat, Bertram would be on his knees before Lisbon himself. He was beginning to grow weary with this. Why did every male of Lisbon's acquaintance—and some females he had to admit—feel this burning need to protect her? As far as he knew, Bertram didn't even like Lisbon that much. And why did they all feel the compulsion most keenly where it concerned _him_? None of this showed past the languid smile he wore. He allowed his gaze to follow Bertram's and looked at his beloved.

Her smile, too, was relaxed, but professional. Sincere with the proper amount of respect and decorum. But as he watched, her head tipped back a fraction, her eyes half-lidded and looking at Bertram down her nose, and he realized her thoughts had taken an angry turn.

"Have you thought about this?" her boss hissed a whisper, his brow furrowed with concern.

"I have."

Jane sat, enthralled by the deceptive lightness of her voice, pleased as punch he was the only one able to read her, who knew her so well. Suddenly but slowly, her eyes slid sideways at him and he realized her ire had moved laterally, its depth and width seeking further occupation.

"You wanna jump in here?" she asked, that same airy tone. Charm deserted him.

"This was your idea."

She turned, graceful but brittle, to face him directly.

"Excuse me?" The words strained against her still smiling teeth.

"Rules, protocol, regulations. Your arena, your forte, your bonds, not mine."

Bertram fought the urge to cover his head with his hands.

"You live in this _arena_, too, remember. Work in it. Protocol has to apply to you, at least on some level."

"No, it doesn't."

"This is so typically childish. Everybody else has to live by the rules, but not you. Not the great Patrick Jane."

"I wish other people could get that like you do."

Lisbon smoldered at him. _What is wrong with this man?_ Bertram wondered. Were their worst evaluations correct? Was he actually psychotic? Lisbon continued unfazed, and he knew it was only because she was well accustomed to the argument.

"You know, Jane, your arrogance never ceases to astound me. And it's blatantly in play in everything you do. Your work, your interactions with people, your driving—"

"There's nothing wrong with my driving—"

"Not if you're a bat out of hell."

"—and my people skills are fine. People _like_ me."

"Oh. And people _don't_ like _me_. Because I follow the rules. Because I have expectations. You're the fun one, and I'm the bad guy."

"I didn't say that. But there is a difference between 'like' and 'fear'."

And on it went. Bertram sagged back in his chair, watching them with what he knew was lurid fascination. Now he knew why Jane had imperiously told Drew to hold his calls, and was glad of it. He thought back to the first time he had met the couple in front of him. His reason for visiting the crime scene that day had been two-fold: It was an excellent media opportunity in his new position, and he would meet in-person the infamous Patrick Jane, boon to the Bureau, curse to its administrators. Three months later, his hypertension medication dosage had been adjusted upwards. And twice since. Lisbon was easier, but only by degrees. More than once, his interactions with her had sent him home for the day to a good stiff drink.

He admired Lisbon. Respected her. She had a kind of hutzpah, a composed audacity. He knew she was no bureaucrat, would snort at the notion. But she knew how to play the game and well, with a quality of mercy. And even if you were her target, you came away liking her, half grateful you'd gotten off so easy. She was a big-picture person, he knew, calculating, qualifying, measuring the cost and discerning whom would pay. He hoped that ability hadn't failed her.

"But the handbook says—"

"I don't give a fig for the handbook, Lisbon. Anyway, it prohibits fraternization among 'team members'. I'm not technically a member of your team."

"And how do you figure that, Einstein?"

"I'm paid by the state of California to serve as consultant to the CBI, which placed me at your disposal." He ignored her mumbling something about "disposal" under her breath. "They can put me anywhere they want. And they want-," his smile was saccharine, "—me with you."

Bertram tuned them out and touched on an earlier thought. _The couple in front of him_. They were. Had been for some time. Oh, he had seen the signs, and had chosen, he thought judiciously, to dismiss them. Lisbon was incredibly sensitive, compassionate—sometimes to her detriment, he reasoned. But she had somehow managed to parlay that seeming softness into a viable professional tool. Jane was a tragic figure, romantic yes, but intensified by a keen intellect, a flagrant disregard for authority and movie-star-ish good looks. They were complicated as individuals, but as a package . . .

And that's exactly what they were. He knew coming to him as they had was a mere formality to satisfy Lisbon's respect for protocol. They wanted to marry, so they would. They wanted to work together, so they would. He could threaten Jane, even try to use the feelings of each against the other, but the Bureau needed Jane—_he_ needed Jane. And Jane without Lisbon was a nuclear reactor core wrapped in styrofoam, total devastation the only reasonable expectation.

And just look at them. How many times, he supposed, had they had this argument or some variation of it?

One index finger lifted and dug into his collar, sweeping against the tightness in an attempt to pull it away from his overheated skin. At that point his mind, in its state of half awareness, registered the higher pitch to which Lisbon's voice had risen, and he realized what was essentially a marital spat was about to escalate to a lovers' quarrel. And right in his office, if he didn't do something.

"Enough!" he bellowed and waved them toward the door. "Out! Now! You want him? Take him! Do whatever you want with him! Just _do it someplace __else__!_"

They stood with alacrity and took their leave. A furthermore had him turning to toss a warning over his shoulder. "But no special considerations. No going soft . . . sof_ter_. He gets no breaks, no special treatment!" A dark thought fueled him further. "And no PDA at work! And no deals for you either, Agent! If this goes south, I don't care how much you want to shoot him—"

His tirade was abruptly cut off by the closing of the outer office door, and they stopped and turned to look back at it. Jade eyes and sea-green both slid sideways to meet in the middle, their heads slowly swiveling so they could look at one another directly. Lisbon's lips thinned into a straight line against the errant smile, and Jane laughingly whooshed out a pent breath.

"Well," he sparkled at her. "That went well."

"It was a brilliant idea."

"Of course," he rejoined, offering her his arm as they resumed their walk. "What would you expect?"

She drew back from him as she fell into step. "What are you talking about? It was my idea." One hand laid delicately against her chest, and his eyes dropped to it.

"Whatever you say," he murmured.

"No," she faced front with determination. "I don't want some half-assed agreement. You're always making me admit when you've come up with a great plan, and this time I want to hear you say—"

Her fulmination broke on a yelp as she was suddenly jerked sideways into a dark, close space, the door shutting behind her, a click illuminating a low-wattage, energy-saving bulb over her head.

"Is this a broom closet?" she grimaced in wonder.

"Yes, dear." His head dipped, and his mouth closed on that cord that ran down the side of her delectable neck as the hand at her elbow tightened its hold and his other smoothed around her waist and down to cup her bottom and pull it into his grinding hips.

"What are you doing?" she asked clinically.

"Make-up sex."

"It wasn't a real fight, Jane."

He drew back slightly and panted down at her, "Work with me, Teresa," before bending his head back to her throat and allowing his upper hand to migrate to her breast. Before she remembered to tense at the use of her first name, she felt her knees weaken even as her hand palmed against him to push weakly at him.

"The security cameras—"

"Only one. And the door's on the fringe." He bit at her earlobe. "It looks like we walked around the corner."

She could feel herself giving in. But she couldn't. Could she? "Jane . . . Jane," she whispered, pleading for what, she didn't know.

As Jane's lower hand stroked up under her jacket and his fingertips dug down inside her belt, a squeak and bump against the door abruptly caused her head to clear.

"Jane," she said authoritatively. "Not at work. We _did_ agree this time."

"Not at the _CBI_," he whispered, lifting her hair as he wound around her to kiss at her nape. "This is the capitol building."

"I am not having sex with you in a broom closet in the state capitol!" she hissed.

Abruptly, he ceased. Lips pulled away, and hands dropped from her body. "Okay," he shrugged. The indifference was staggering.

"Wait." She stalled his hand on the door knob. "That's it? It's over? You're giving up. Just like that."

He shrugged again. "You said—"

"_When_ has that ever stopped you?"

"Lisbon," he started reasonably. "We're going to be married. In spite of what I just said in front of Bertram, you are my boss. I have to respect that, at least to some degree, and while I always have (to a lesser degree) . . . things are going to be different. I can't take advantage like I used to. I don't want to go home every day with you mad at me."

She shivered slightly at his words, but not with leftover heat. It was a chill. Jane. At work every day. Never trying anything again. She was shocked at how unpleasant and deadly dull and _unwanted_ that sounded.

"Well," she drawled out, fingers stroking over his hand. "We're not married yet."

He drew back in uncertainty. "But you just said you weren't having—"

"Forget what I said," she broke in in exasperation.

"Just so we're clear . . . This is a one-time thing?"

"We'll see," she purred.

He grinned down at her, the "Yes, ma'am" clearing his lips as he regained his hold on her. His head dipped for a kiss, but she pulled back a fraction of an inch to stall him.

"First, let me hear you say it."

His eyes narrowed in thought then rolled as he let out a gusty sigh. "That was a brilliant idea _you_ had for getting around Bertram."

"That's more like it."

She raised her lips to his, his hands moved, she broke the kiss and moaned deep and sweet against his throat, and his smug smile was lost in a cloud of chestnut hair.


	7. Epilogue, Part 2

**When I posted the first chapter of this "story" (which was originally meant to be a single-chapter piece), I said it was written "just because". I hope that same reasoning is excuse enough for what happened with this last installment. It started out as a nice bit of observation from an OC and morphed into an M-ish piece of self-gratification. Hey. It happens.**

_Without reason and without prudence, the heart wants what the heart wants, and more often than not, it will not be denied. –_

EPILOGUE, PART 2 – HEARTS UNITED

Saturday dawned bright and beautiful, the heat finally having broken and a few strokes of fall color tinting the leaves of the flowering trees in the church courtyard. Relief swept over him as he stepped outside and surveyed the pretty patch of garden that would serve as the backdrop outside the tall windows of the little chapel where the ceremony would be held in just under half an hour, surprise at the turn of events bringing a light, if rueful, smile to his lips. He turned on the walk and headed for the side door of the original old chantry that nestled along one side of the church proper.

Father Scott Day had come to the little Sacramento parish forty years ago, filled with idealistic and naïve hopes. Learning he was being sent to a California city—the capitol no less—he had immediately embarked on fantasies of an urban mission, ministering to the homeless, the drunken and addicted, the immoral downcast and downtrodden of the inner city. His dismay at the sweet little church and grounds nestled at the city's hub amidst gleaming mid-rises and abutting the state government compound seemed ridiculous to him now, dreams of wrestling against sin in the trenches abruptly dashed. It had taken him time to realize that the people who found their way to the sanctuary at all hours came, not because they had stumbled in or were looking for respite from the elements but because they were searching for something—peace, solace, answers; that they needed ministering to as surely as the more obviously lost sheep.

Although she was by no means a "regular", Teresa Lisbon had become a sort of fixture for him. When her call came, he had impulsively given into what he knew _she_ knew was an untoward request—a quickie wedding in a Catholic church, performed by a priest in good standing, no less. He had waved the weeks of counseling and sacramental requirements, pausing for thought only after the call had ended and he relaxed back into his ancient leather desk chair.

He had first met her a few years previous when she came to the church as he was making his last rounds before retiring to his private rooms for the night. She was obviously troubled, had caught his eyes on her, her own sliding toward the confessional and back to where he stood, in silent request. He had proceeded there immediately feeling her only a few, quiet steps behind him.

Years previous, she had kept a secret for a friend against the law and against the rules. She was a cop, she had said at that point, without hesitation or defensiveness or untoward pride, much the same way he would have imagined her informing someone that she was a brunette, as if it were naturally a part of her. Then, this friend had done something to a "co-worker", she had called him, though Day could hear something more in the way she referred to him. The action was not unwarranted, she hastened to the first friend's defense, but it had been done for the wrong reasons and would cause much more harm than good. And she had used the secret against him, outright blackmailing him. She was obviously upset about hurting him, not even touching on what harm she would have done to herself if she had made good on the threat. This clear indication of her selflessness in the matter, together with her breaking guilt and regret (clear signs of sincere contrition), had played an important part in his decision to give light instructions for her absolution. She confessed a fairly short litany of other sins—lies, envy, anger. There were others unconfessed, he was certain, given her age, lifestyle and occupation, but it had been years since he had learned his lesson about making assumptions in the confessional booth, so he didn't press.

Since then, her visits had been sporadic and always after dark. A few months later, she had come, wistful and grief stricken, to light a candle. There were periodic confessions, in which the co-worker figured heavily and became "colleague" then, eventually, "friend". While he would never be so jaded or unkind as to call his regular congregants' confessions dull, he did listen to Teresa Lisbon's, explanations and subtext included, with a certain amount of unpriestly relish.

Then, a little over a year ago, her visits suddenly became more frequent. She would sit in a pew late at night, sometimes with head bowed, sometimes facing the icons at the altar with a questioning, bewildered look of such abject sadness that he wished he could go to her and gather her in his arms, only restrained by the certain knowledge that such outright recognition of her suffering would forever chase her from the sanctuary she found here. A few times she had lit a candle in prayer. Eventually, another flame illumined in a reserved and cautious thanksgiving. Over the next few months, she came to periodically confess anger, frustration and the desire to do bodily harm to someone, though he was sure it was not a certain co-worker-colleague-friend. That year she had attended Christmas Eve mass, her first and only since he had known her.

He hadn't heard from her in several weeks, so the evening call was a surprise, the request a shock, though neither could apply to the identity of her intended. His acquiescence was nearly immediate, though not impetuous. He knew they would marry quickly at any cost, but he felt it would be better at the church (even if, in good conscience, he could not perform the rite in the actual sanctuary), better for her and for their union. Plus, he had to admit, he selfishly just wanted to be a part of it.

And, he was certain, her brothers would not be able to attend on such short notice, so it was only fitting that someone stand in as something close to family. Old enough to be her physical father and serving in the religious capacity of that title, he thought it was his duty to stand in the gap. He had gone a long way in fulfilling it when, upon meeting the groom the evening before, he had studied him without subtlety, refused stolidly to laugh at any of his jokes and consistently turned on him what he and his friends in Sister Agnes' seventh-grade class had come to call "the stink eye". In the end, it was not the man's good looks or easy charm or winning smile that had made him glad he had "gone renegade". Even an old fool of a priest could see that Patrick Jane was utterly smitten, so thoughtful, solicitous and respectful in his behavior toward her as he was, and in such a way that would grow over the years rather than wane. Father Day could only wish all of the husbands in his congregation could be so in love with their wives.

"_Speak of the devil_," he thought, eyes narrowing at the three men entering at the back of the chapel. One was the groom, seemingly calm and composed, the tell-tale trailing of one palm up and down the side of his neat pin-striped vest the only indication of nerves, though his eyes repeatedly darting to the chapel doors told Father Day it was more than mere wedding jitters. The other two men he knew by description only, Cho and Rigsby, Teresa's subordinates and friends to bride and groom. Feminine laughter sounded from the hallway, and he knew the ladies, Teresa and her attendant, Grace Van Pelt had arrived. At Patrick's immediately relieved smile, Father Scott couldn't help a benevolent shake of his head.

On the hour, the gentlemen took their places, Cho leaving through the back doors to re-enter later at the bride's side. The guitar began to play, one heavy door wafted open, and a vision in lavender entered the room. Agent Rigsby's eyes skittered along one wall and across the ceiling then resignedly came to rest on Agent Van Pelt as she processed gracefully down the short aisle. The priest's heart warmed with satisfaction when he saw that the groom spared not a glance away from the entry behind her.

Then, the moment came. Agent Cho stepped in, brawny arms swinging back the heavy doors as if they were little more than air to prop them open. When he stood at one side in an at-ease posture, face emotionless, the wedding party at the intimate altar held their collective breath. Patrick Jane's hand returned to that agitated up-and-down against his well-tailored vest, eyes straining to see beyond the visible bit of empty hallway, and Father Day fought the urge to stride out in search of Teresa Lisbon and demand to know just what the hell she was playing at.

And then she appeared, looking up adoringly and misty-eyed at a tall, dark and quaintly handsome young man standing at her side, her hand curled, resting familiarly and confidently around his elbow. The priest started at the sight, but the collective breath released in joint happiness and satisfaction, and Jane chuckled outright when a young teenaged girl—small, dark-haired, mischievous and bearing a marked resemblance to the bride—stepped behind the two at the threshold and gave them a little push to move them forward, signaling Cho to close the doors once they had all passed through. Teresa turned then and looked at her husband-to-be, and for the first time in decades, Father Scott Day's breath was stolen away at the sight of a woman.

She floated down the aisle, a feast for the eyes in a simple but demure sheath of cream, radiating love and joyful warmth, her bouquet an opulent version of the small nosegay carried by her attendant, and came to rest at Jane's side. Her escort, now recognized by the priest as what must surely be a brother, kissed her hand before transferring it to its new, permanent caretaker, who gave it a light tug then caressed it as she stepped into him with a look of such abject trust that Father Day almost regretted his giving in to the hasty wedding. The answering light in Patrick Jane's eyes relieved him much and, frankly, embarrassed him a little, and he inwardly shrugged. _Better to marry than to burn_, he told himself before welcoming them and announcing his intention to pray, his gaze hovering over them long enough to see every head bowed, in respect if not faith.

Three sentences in, he heard the doors creak open.

Cutting the prayer short out of curiosity, he lifted his eyes to see who had joined them. The bride and groom turned to look over their shoulders, the rest of the party, including brother and niece following suit. A couple walked halfway up the diminutive aisle and took a seat on what would be the bride's side. The man was roughly a decade younger than Day, his face seasoned by former stresses and hard decisions. The woman was a few years younger still, long-legged, confident, serene and gracious. He treated her in a gentlemanly way, almost courtly in his manner, his hand loosening her hold on his elbow just enough to allow her to take her seat before he slid into the pew next to her, never letting her go completely. He looked up and smiled benignly at the wedding party at large, the bride in particular. They all turned back, eyes front, except the groom. At that point, the older man's eyes narrowed dangerously. He raised two fingers to point at his own eyes then swiveled his wrist so both fingers pointed at Patrick then jabbed his index finger toward the groom in a clearly threatening gesture. The lady at his side smoothed her palm up and down the upper arm to which she still clung in a calming motion. He looked down at her, lowering his hand to give hers a pat then lifted his gaze to the priest and gave a commanding jerk of his head as if to say _Get on with it_.

Because of the small size of the gathering and the informal atmosphere, he had decided to skip the readings and go straight to the homily, man and woman coming together in accordance with God's holy ordinance, defense against sins of the flesh (skimming that part), for the procreation and the blessing of children (wondering if there would be any), the relationship between Christ and His Church (ignoring the twinge of guilt). He stopped suddenly and leaned toward the bride.

"We didn't discuss this part—I didn't see the need, but since he's here . . ."

She rolled her eyes and nodded.

"Who gives this woman to be married to this man?" he intoned formally.

The tall, gangly man who stood just behind her hesitantly opened his mouth, but it was a much younger, distinctly feminine voice that answered.

"Her brother and I do!"

And with that, the teenager gave her father's jacket sleeve a tug and they took their seats on the front row, unsurprisingly also on the bride's side. At that point, the door groaned open again. And again, all eyes turned to watch another beauty, this one tall and dark and stately, sail up the aisle as if there were no question of her belonging there. Each hand held that of a child, boy and girl, the latter slightly older, both wide-eyed and beautiful as their mother. The little girl gave a wave toward the bride and received a wobble of the large bouquet back. They settled in on the same side as the other guests, the woman looking up and ending the wedding party's surprised stares with a pointedly arched eyebrow and a slow back and forth roll of her shoulders as she crossed her arms over her chest.

The principals and their attendants against faced front, but before Father Day could continue, the oaken door again creaked on its hinges. This time, the wedding party turned as one (with the priest) to glare at the interruption. A large man, in kindness Day could only describe him as portly, balding, wearing a light suit, lumbered into the room, obviously hoping to be unobtrusive, and lowered himself into the end of the rear pew, again on the bride's side. He looked up at the party, rapidly shifting eyes clouded with apology. The party turned slowly, looking close to shellshocked. The groom leaned a little toward the bride and said something out the corner of his mouth. She scowled darkly at him up through her eyebrows and gave a tiny, sharp shake of her head, swallowed hard then whispered a slightly strangled, "_Go on_." "_And hurry_," the groom added in what the bride apparently thought was inappropriate humor.

In spite of the coolness of the room, Father Day felt a band of perspiration forming at his collar.

"Um . . .," he murmured, leaning toward the two in front of him. "I know we didn't talk about this either, but now that there are a number of guests . . ."

Teresa all but hid her face in her flowers in embarrassed understanding, and he lifted his head to look about the room.

"If there is anyone here who knows just cause why these two should not be joined together in holy matrimony—" He would _not_ choke on the words. "—let them speak now or forever hold their peace."

It was issued as a challenge, and he gave his best threatening, disapproving glare. In his peripheral vision, he noticed Teresa's apprehensive slump and Patrick's assuring pat and squeeze of her hand that wound around his arm. There was the sound of rustling fabric as one guest shifted, the creak of a complaining pew from another, but all voices remained silent.

Deciding in this case that quicker was better, Father Day rolled through the vows and exchange of rings, confident by now that the meanings were written on the hearts of those involved, the words and actions mere formalities.

"And now, by the power vested in me by Holy Church and the state of California—" His racing speech came to a halt and he breathed deep and sighed gustily. "I'm now happy and relieved to pronounce you husband and wife. You may—"

He might have expected that a famed mentalist would precipitate him.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

In the end, she didn't really miss the wedding brunch. As it turned out, after the congratulations and hugs—one of them rather awkward, made even more so by Jane pulling her away after a few seconds—she was glad to be away from people. She knew her team, accompanied now by Virgil and May to make up the rest of the party of five, would probably appreciate not eating brunch with the newly married couple and the inevitable attending discomfort, at least on the part of the men.

The few hours after the wedding were spent in private celebration at a nearby hotel before Jane literally whisked her away to the airport. He insisted she ride blindfolded, wanting all to remain a surprise until the last possible moment. Even packing was kept to a minimum of necessities and one day's worth of clothing, Jane assuring her they would be able to purchase all they needed once they arrived at their destination.

Shocked when they exited the car on the tarmac of a private hangar, she looked in wonder at the Bombardier, gleaming white in the late afternoon sun. Deciding to simply go with the flow and—for once—ask no questions (to Jane's delight if not outright relief), she snuggled deeply into the leather seat, enjoyed the free-flowing bar and weighted appetizer trays and wondered languidly where a ten-hour flight would take them.

After a while, the clouds cleared and she looked down on sporadic lights on waving ground that she realized in the awakening dawn must be maritime lamps on ocean water. They landed on what turned out to be the island of St. Thomas, boarded the ferry and drifted into Cruz Bay on nearby St. John. True to his word, Jane found a boutique and purchased what she thought was the barest minimum of clothing. Knowing it wasn't enough for one of the resorts dotting the beach, she again kept her questions to herself.

Now, four days into their stay, she lay on a heavy, wide-slatted teak lounger Jane had dragged onto the sand from the pool's deck for her before he left on his mysterious errands. The private beach house, with its white stucco walls and deep red-metal roof, not overly large but luxuriously furnished, rose behind her, the ocean waves pounding mere yards from her feet. She let the book she was trying to read fall into the sand beside her and laid the chaise back into a flat recline, her left arm stretching lazily above her head, whole body lulled by the warm sun soaking into the skin revealed by the red bandeau and string bikini Jane had selected for her. She had thought she would be glad for the time alone—they had been together every second since they'd arrived—but she found herself, most uncharacteristically—

"Miss me?"

She pursed her lips at him, eyes still closed. "Back already?"

"Couldn't stay away too long."

"Oh?" she responded nonchalantly.

She felt him kneel in the sand next to her, his hand sliding under her back to tug at the bow that held her top in place.

"As ironic as I find the concept of the marriage bed being a defense against sins of the flesh, I was away from you a little over an hour and found myself in need of . . . defending."

She chuckled in satisfaction as she felt the tie give. "You're the most defenseless person I think I've ever met."

"What can I say?" he answered, pulling the bandeau from beneath her on one side then skimming his hand across her chest as he pulled it over and freed the other end, dropping the material on the opposite side. "The enticements are near constant."

He dipped his head and kissed her shoulder, and she hummed on a smile, still not wanting to open her eyes. _The better to feel you with_.

"That reminds me, Father Day mentioned children. Given any thought to that?"

She rolled her raised arm against the touch of his fingertips trailing down it. "We'll see."

"Those are fast becoming my favorite words." He nuzzled the side of her breast. "The most wonderful things happen when we say them." He stretched over her, his lips to her ear, and whispered, "We'll see, Teresa." She felt him sit back a few inches. "See? Your shoulders didn't even tense that time."

The lounger creaked around her, and she felt his warmth before he settled his weight fully on her body.

"Are you _ever_ going to make use of those board shorts you bought?" she asked in feigned exasperation.

"Meh," he rumbled into her hair. "Doesn't seem to be much point when it's just the two of us."

"What about Mina?" she inquired, referring to the cook-housekeeper who seemed to come with the place.

"Sent her home for the day."

"What will we do about dinner?"

She heard the smile in his words as he looked down at her. "You've really gotten into the lady-of-leisure lifestyle haven't you?"

"Enticements are near constant."

He chuckled and smoothed her hair back, lightly kissed her forehead. "We're going into town, to Asolare. That's where I went. And to pick up something to wear." Another light kiss to her temple. "I did wear the board shorts by the way."

"You wore them into town?"

She remembered how he looked in them, little more than of strip of fabric, light blue with a swirl of off-white design, riding scandalously low on his tanned hips. Outside of speedos and a raid on an S and M bordello as a newbie in San Francisco, she'd never seen anything skimpier on a man. She felt the pad of his thumb sooth against the wrinkle that divided her brow.

"Not just the shorts. Wore the linen shirt too. Everybody was dressed the same, so nobody noticed me."

The pad smoothed across to rub the tension out of her skeptically arched eyebrow. His lips lowered to hers, breathing out, "_I _didn't notice anybody," before he kissed her.

She relaxed beneath him, feeling his lips trail along her jaw then down her neck. "I wish we could stay here forever," she sighed contentedly.

"Sorry, love," he murmured against her pulse point. "I only won it for the week."

At that her whole body did tense, as did Jane's in response over her. The spell broken, her eyes opened and slid sideways at him even as his head raised and his eyes mirrored hers.

"What do you mean—" she asked evenly, "—you 'won'? I thought we agreed a year ago, no more Vegas."

"Bear with me," he began, bracing his weight against his forearms on either side of her. "I didn't go to Vegas. It was Reno." At her questioning look, he hurried on before she could launch into full-on interrogation. She had been doing so well. "Do you remember Alexandra Yee?"

"Yeah," she answered thoughtfully. "The Meier case, about four years ago. At the casino, she was a—"

"Blackjack dealer, yes," he nodded at her. "After the case cleared, she and Ann Meier—"

"The victim's wife."

"— and her daughter Jessica—"

"The murderer's wife."

"—and Matt Ettiene—"

"The security guy."

"They all went into business together as casino consultants. I contacted Alexandra—"

"Why her?"

He looked at her sheepishly. "She owed me a favor . . ." He rolled one shoulder. "Sort of."

Lisbon searched through her memories of the case and Alexandra Yee. Her eyes slimmed in thought.

"Etienne caught her cheating at the tables but kept her on because she was blackmailing him over his affair with the boss's wife."

Her searching her mental catalogue continued as Jane went on with his explanation.

"I looked her up, called her and told her what I wanted. She supplied a list of possible players—"

"Whales."

"Yes. Really big whales."

"She was trying to make money for her mother's kidney transplant."

"Yes, during the case. Anyway, I looked the list over—"

"You never told us what you did with the money you won in that last game."

"What? No, I didn't. Anyway—"

"Jane. You gave _her_ the money." She raised her head and kissed him, fully and warmly on the lips. He returned and deepened the kiss before breaking it off suddenly.

"Do you want to hear this or not?"

"Do you think you have to tell me?"

"I don't want it coming up at an inopportune time later."

"Then tell away."

"I looked the list over and found what I wanted and called her back with the names. She made the calls and set the game up in Reno, _not_ Vegas, and we played over the weekend while you and I . . . weren't . . . together."

He was squinting at her apprehensively now, unsure how she would take the news of how their honeymoon had been provided.

"Did you cheat?" she asked directly.

"No. I read the other players, but there was no counting cards, and Alexandra was the dealer."

"Did you manipulate the outcome in any other way, use any tricks or diversions?"

"No. I even let them keep some of their money. Last hand, we all agreed to bet a service of some kind—"

"What _'service'_ did you bet?"

"Doesn't matter. Anyway, one of them put up the use of his jet—he was a blinker—and another put up one week at his Caribbean beach house. He had this thing about tapping his cards when he bluffed. I won enough to cover expenses, so they didn't even really lose anything."

Her body eased beneath him, and she smiled delightedly. "That's brilliant."

"So, , . . you're okay with this?"

"You didn't break the law, didn't break a promise, we got this great honeymoon, and nobody's angry? Seems like a win all the way around."

"And if I want to do it again?"

"One proviso."

"Name it."

"I go with you."

He made to argue, but her hands landed softly on his upper arms in assurance. "I won't interfere, I promise. I just want to be there." One hand slid up to round against the back of his head and pulled it down so she could whisper in his ear, "It's hot when you play cards."

_I love this woman_, he thought. When she tipped her head back against the teak and laughed, bright and joyful, he realized he'd said the words aloud. Lying fully on her, his hands trailed down her sides to untie the strings at her hips and pull away the last impediment to full-body contact. Lisbon's legs moved reflexively to either side of him, and she inhaled, deep and ragged when he sunk into her and pushed up to more fully seat himself.

"You okay?" he rumbled in her ear.

"There's usually more . . . foreplay."

"I knew you were ready," he whisper-smiled.

"How?" she asked, curiosity intently focused.

"You have a tell. Five to be exact. S'why I usually draw things out. Want all of them in play." He pushed up and down once slowly. "But I only need the one."

She closed her eyes and whispered back, "Tell me."

"Huh-uh." His hands curved around her arms and raised them on either side of her head, palms smoothing all the way up to her wrists. "Stay right there," he murmured against one eyelid.

Elbows again braced on either side of her, he lifted himself a few inches above her and rolled up and down again, humming in approval when one of her knees bent and lifted against him. Unthinking, one of her hands drifted down and found his shoulder, skimming across and down to center on his chest. All movement stopped.

"No," he said gruffly, and she blinked up at him in question. His eyes, tempest green and commanding, burned into hers. "They move, I stop."

She gulped and nodded silently, slowly sliding her arm back up into place, eyes closing once more. Jane resumed, over, in and on her, stilling only momentarily before she heard the wood near the left side of her head creak under pinpointed weight. Breeze wafted over her body as he lifted away from her, and she felt his left palm curve around her right thigh and lift. The sensations he was creating, heightened by her concentration on feeling and hearing alone, were enough, but curiosity as to what he looked like got the better of her, and she barely opened her eyes to slits. Almost instantly, she wished she hadn't for the sudden rush it brought to her blood. His weight bolstered against his right hand, his body arced over hers, left hand holding her thigh high against his side, he looked like a statue of gold and ruddy marble, caught in carving in a moment of pure and perfect passion. Her eyes opened fully at the sight of his, still burning down at her in heated green.

She knew how she looked, how he saw her, arms raised above her head, vulnerable and passive against his sheer physicality. But passivity suddenly did not suit her. His head tilted slightly and eyes narrowed in warning at her. She had faced this before, found herself in the weaker position and turned it to her advantage without breaking the rules. Still in place as he had ordered, her wrists rotated bringing her palms down to curve around the top edge of the lounger. Taking hold, she used the grasp as leverage and brought her hips up then rolled them down in time with his movement, squeezing around him as she did. As her hips ground down hard against him, her chest lifted, and his head dropped as if in surrender.

She closed her eyes against the visual erotic onslaught and felt something hot and wet close over one breast. When it began a rhythmic tugging in perfect synchronization with everything else around her—the air, the waves, and Jane's body—she whimpered in selfish regret. When she had said she wished they could stay there forever, she hadn't meant only this time and place, but each of these moments. Right now, she wanted _this_ moment to last, and as she felt what was rapidly approaching, she wished she could call it back. Her desperation only made the unfurling of sensation, the hot, electric charge that rolled down her legs and up along her torso, her arms and into the very roots of her hair, all the more overpowering. Her body shuddered, inside and out, and her eyes opened once more, gaze lowering to the crop of golden curls still undulating over her breast. He looked up at her and must have read what he saw. The telltale shiver she had felt in his body leveled, and his forehead creased in concentration. His eyes closed and his head hung to one side against the round of his shoulder in the effort to maintain his steady, strong rhythm. Knowing there were no rules now, her hands gratefully landed on his upper arms, and she worked with and against him, matching her tempo to his.

She felt the build again and cried out in relief as this time the crest rolled over her, deep and unhurried, rippling even through her bones. Only then did she feel him tremble beneath her palms and against her body, slow to a stop, and drop gently to rest his head against her shoulder with a sated groan.

Her mind cleared and thoughts came back together, and she raised her hand, fingers tangling in his curls, and kissed the top of his head with a chuckle. He shifted, nuzzling his querying "Hm?" against her.

"You were right," she said, idly stroking against his scalp. "Not having your sight does hone the other senses." He tilted his head back to look up at her. "The first orgasm was red, . . . like a chili pepper, a hot fiery jolt. The last was a deep, beautiful purple." She crimped her neck to drop a kiss on his nose. "Don't ask me for a metaphor for that one."

He hummed against her again and turned his face into her, kissing the top curve of her breast as her fingers stroked down the back of his neck.

"You know," she mused, "if anyone had told me a year ago, or six months or even three that I'd be here, today, like this, with you? I would've laughed in their face."

He tucked his head and kissed over her breast bone then just to the left.

"The heart wants—," he began.

"—what the heart wants," she answered.

He pushed up, hovering over her and looked down into her eyes and said determinedly, "It will not be denied."

"I never stood a chance, did I?"

She laughed softly at the pleased glint in his eyes then whispered a plea.

"Kiss me, Jane."

And he bowed his head and yielded.

**END**


End file.
